Conflict of Interest
by Wordgrrrl
Summary: Sherlock's grieving process after "The Reichenbach Fall."
1. Chapter 1

"Conflict of Interest"

The first time I met Sherlock Holmes, I did not recognize him.

I had seen his face in the papers, of course, but the man who burst into the safe room bore only the slightest resemblance to the man in print. He was still wearing his trademark black coat, but it was stained with dark streaks of human blood. His face was ghostly pale, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen with unshed tears.

And, as my mother would have said, he was "a bit green around the gills." His knees were wobbling beneath him and I grasped his thin waist, clutching a fistful of his stained overcoat.

"My name is Merry," I said. "I'm here to help you. Let's walk over to the couch."

"Merry with an 'E"," he muttered.

"Yes," I confirmed. "Merry with an E."

"Your mother thought it would be clever to name you Merry Noel since you were due on Christmas Eve." His eyes were fixed on the couch now as we slogged toward it.

"But you surprised your parents by being born in November," he whispered. "Nearly a month premature,"

We'd reached the couch and I helped him to sit. "They told me you were exceedingly clever," I mused.

He wiped the back of his hand over his eyes, startling when he saw the wasted human blood on his hand. He swallowed hard.

"I am exceedingly clever," he agreed. "I believe I'm also about to vomit."

I scooped up the nearest wastebasket and held it beneath his chin; he took it with both hands and stuck his face inside it as his shoulders heaved.

I tried to ignore the sounds of sick hitting the bottom of the basket, and the horrible, harsh gagging. I patted his shoulder comfortingly. "That's it, just let all of it come out," I soothed.

"It's all right. You're going to be okay."

"Go," he moaned between heaves. "Please."

I left him to it, knowing I wouldn't appreciate company had the situation been reversed.

A bedroom had been set up next door. I went inside, pulled back the blankets, fluffed the pillows, set a glass of water on the bedstand.

I moved to open the tightly drawn curtains, hoping to bring some natural sunlight into the room, and then remembered the window would offer no sunshine. The only view behind the curtain was that of a sealed brick wall.

I puttered around the room, still cringing every time I heard poor Sherlock gag. I knew his stomach had to be empty by now- I'd been warned that he didn't eat much, so surely there hadn't been much for him to throw up- and I fought the urge to help him. I stayed away but I listened closely, and when I knew the retching was taking its toll on him, when his breath was coming in sobs, I re-entered my office.

"Sherlock?"

There was no response; he had set the basket on the ground and had wrapped his arms around his thin waist as if he could stop the sickness by applying pressure. Tears were spilling down his cheeks, causing red rivulets to form in the blood still marring his face.

I had never seen a more miserable person in my entire life. Given my line of work, that was saying something.

I walked to the medicine cabinet, unlocking the padlock with a few twists of my wrist. After gathering my supplies, I came to him and sat down beside him, gently pulling his arm straight.

He stared at me, not understanding, until I had swabbed his arm with an alcohol wipe. Then he pulled away. "What are you doing?" he demanded.

"I'm giving you something to help with the dry heaving," I said, uncapping the syringe.

"No." He tried to stand, but was too weak. Still, he scooted as far away from me as he could. "I'm… I'm an addict," he insisted.

"This is just an antiemetic," I explained calmly. "There's nothing addictive here. I promise."

He was about to refuse again, but then the dry heaves assaulted him again. As he choked, he gasped, "Please."

"It will work quickly." I took his arm again, reswabbed it, and pierced his skin with the needle.

It didn't work as quickly as either of us would have liked, but soon he was confident enough to unclap his hand from his mouth.

The medication caused drowsiness as well, and I noted the glossiness of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders. I realized I should have given him the medication after he'd lay down on the bed, but he wouldn't make it to the next room now.

He was slumping, listing into the cushions. I didn't want him to ruin the new upholstery, so I wetted a washcloth and tried to wipe the worst of the blood from his face. He closed his eyes, a moan escaping his lips as I ran the warm cloth over his cheeks and forehead.

"Could we take your coat off, Sherlock?" I asked. "It's… quite dirty."

"Yes," he murmured, but he was nearly asleep already, and I knew my upholstery was going to be ruined. At least the couch was long and plush; he'd be able to stretch out for the nap he obviously was about to take.

"Lie down," I soothed. I stepped into his room to fetch his pillow and blanket, and when I returned he had settled his lanky form across the couch, his eyes still closed, his cheeks still flushed from my scrubbing and his overwhelming emotions.

"Sherlock, lift up," I said, and he lifted his head far enough for me to slip the pillow beneath his matted curls. I removed his boots- they, too, were bloodstained- and then covered him with his quilt.

He shivered and slipped into sleep. I cleaned out the wastebasket, replacing it at his side just in case, but he didn't move an inch. I watched him for a moment, wanting to make sure he was truly asleep.

Then I crossed the room, settling into my desk and opened the laptop in front of me.

This would undoubtedly be the most interesting case of my life.


	2. Chapter 2

"… Contrary to what the patient has believed, I do not see signs of sociopathic behavior. Patient presented with crying and vomiting upon arrival. Mental status has yet to be determined but-"

I hadn't even finished typing my case notes when Sherlock bolted upright, his bloodshot eyes wide. I stood up from my desk, fearing he was about to throw up again. Instead, he looked around the room, remembering his surroundings. "I'm still here," he said.

I nodded. "That was a short nap."

"I don't sleep," he mumbled. "Not even when I'm… medicated." He bit out the last word, aiming the accusation right at me.

"You were in no position to argue with me," I said lightly. "You couldn't stop throwing up. I was only helping you. That's what I'm here for."

"Exactly why are you here, Merry-with-an-E?" he muttered.

"I'm a psychiatrist. I specialize in patients with PTSD. Your brother wanted to make sure you were going to be all right," I said. "He thought that you might need help working through your grief."

"What grief?" he scoffed. "I'm not grieving."

"You're not?"

"They'll grieve," he said quietly. "Not I."

"They?"

"Mrs. Hudson. Molly, perhaps. And John…" He paused, and I saw his face crumple for the briefest of seconds. But he pushed the pain away, locking it up tightly inside him again. "John will grieve."

"Yes," I agreed. "I am sure John will grieve."

We stared each other down for a few minutes. Finally, he broke the silence. "I had no choice in the matter. My conscience is clear," he said. "I will not grieve."

"All right." I nodded, knowing that the grief had already arrived in the form of denial.

"At any rate, I'd like to be alone," he said.

"I can't let that happen just yet," I explained. "I'm here to keep you safe."

He snorted. "I just committed suicide. How much more danger could I possibly be in?"

"You tell me," I deadpanned.

The smirk on his face faded. "Where's the washroom?"

I pointed. "Just off your bedroom."

"I have a bedroom," he smirked. "I suppose I'm staying for a while, then.

"Do you have a bedroom? Or are we sharing?"

There was a sneer in his voice but I ignored it. I pointed to the closed door on the left of the room.

"How cozy," he murmured.

"If you're feeling well enough to take a shower, I've put out your bathrobe and some towels," I told him. He was really frightful, the blood was still caked in his hair and face. He must have realized it, too; his fingers wandered to his face, feeling the stickiness there.

As he walked into the bedroom, I called, "Please keep the bathroom door open while you're showering. The medication I gave you is still in your system and it might cause you to get light-"

The door slammed shut in response.

"-Headed," I finished.

Rolling my eyes, I pulled out a bottle of cleaning solution and some rags- thoughtfully placed beneath the sink in our shared kitchenette- and went to work on my poor couch upholstery. The blood Sherlock had left behind wasn't lifting very well, but at least the stains faded from brown to a less ominous tan color.

As I scrubbed, I listened intently to the sounds in the bathroom. The toilet flushed and the water in the sink was turned on, then off. I heard him gasp, and I guessed he had just faced his reflection in the mirror for the first time. I fought the urge to call out to him and scrubbed harder.

When the shower turned on, I relaxed a little. He'd managed to undress and make it into the shower without help, so perhaps he wasn't suffering any light-headedness after all.

I was just replacing the rags and cleaner, wondering idly how I'd get the blood out of his clothing, when I heard it:

A thunk. Like a bare foot slipping on a wet tile, and a bare bottom landing hard against the shower floor.

I swore under my breath and ran for the bathroom door.


	3. Chapter 3

The man had locked the door, assuring himself privacy and an inability to reach him if he should faint in the shower.

"Sherlock!" I jiggled the door handle. "Are you all right?"  
I heard the faintest gasp from the other side of the bathroom door. I ran to my desk, caught up a paperclip and had straightened it by the time I'd returned to the bathroom.

"Did I not specifically instruct you to not…" I stuffed the paperclip into the lock's mechanism. "…close…" I twisted the paperclip fervently.

"…The door?"

The door swung open and I was engulfed by a cloud of soapy-smelling steam. Waving my arms to clear it, I saw him, sprawled on the floor of the tub, one arm and one leg hooked over the side. The shower curtain had fallen with him and was now tangled around his body.

His eyes were shut tightly, his cheek resting against the edge of the tub. He'd managed to wash the dried blood from his skin, but fresh blood was blooming from his nostrils.

I turned off the water and knelt in front of him. "What hurts?"

He made a sound between a whimper and a sob.

"Did you hit your head?" I was already pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand while running the fingers of my other hand through his wet curls, looking for bumps and fresh blood. I sighed in relief when I found neither.

"Looks like your nose took the brunt of it," I said.

"Among other portions of my anatomy," he gritted out. "Speaking of which… could you hand me a towel?"

"Oh!" His nakedness hadn't occurred to me until that moment; I grabbed a bath towel and lay it gently across his hips. It molded to his skin, leaving nothing to the imagination, but at least it gave him a small sense of modesty.

I unwound the shower curtain from around him, muttering, "Sorry," when he moaned.

"Just a bit sore," he hissed. He lay back to straighten his spine, then struggled to sit up.

"Careful," I murmured, "Are you still light-headed?"

"No," he said, but I knew it was a lie and stepped into the tub behind him to help haul him to his feet. When he stood, the towel fell away and I could see the red, angry marks along his hip and bottom; he would have spectacular bruises by morning.

I took his bathrobe from the edge of the sink and wrapped it around his shoulders, then helped him step onto the dry floor. I had had to let go of his nose to help him upright, so the blood was once again coursing down his face, dripping from his chin. I pinched his nostrils shut and told him to sit down on the closed toilet.

He did so heavily, his eyes still closed. "Lean forward a bit," I encouraged. "If the blood goes down your throat, you'll throw up." He did so willingly, listing wearily against me. I rubbed his shoulder with my free hand and murmured soothing, nonsensical things as I waited for his blood to clot.

I was angry with myself for allowing him to shower without an escort, and in that uncanny way of his, he knew. "You feel guilty because I was walking without a gait when I entered the bathroom," he said, his voice nasally. "You thought I would feel more calm if I could wash the blood off, and that outweighed the risk of my falling shower."

"Yes," I agreed reluctantly.

"You thought I was fine," he said.

"But you weren't fine," I couldn't keep the irritation out of my voice.

"At first," he said. "I dropped the bottle of shampoo, and when I leaned over to pick it up, the vertigo set in."

"Are you better now?"

"I'm improving," he agreed.

"Good," I said. "But I'm afraid I'll have to call one of our physicians to pay you a visit."

He began to protest, and then closed his mouth abruptly. "Fine."

I was concerned he didn't make more of a fuss.

Fortunately, the bleeding stopped quickly, and as I mopped the blood from his face with a towel, he agreed to lie down. I suspected the invincible Sherlock Holmes was wearing out, and for that I was grateful.

I kept my arm around his thin waist as we walked to his bed and hovered until he had settled between the sheets, still wearing his damp terrycloth robe. Immediately, he screwed his eyes closed; I suspected the bed was spinning around him.

Wordlessly, I made him a cup of tea and set it on his bedside table. "I'm going to call the doctor," I said.

"Hurry," he whispered.

That frightened me most of all.


	4. Chapter 4

Our tiny hideaway was in the basement of St. Bart's, so a doctor arrived within moments of my phone call.

What I did not expect was our second visitor, who walked in a few moments later without knocking or announcing himself.

I knew who he was: Mycroft Holmes.

I'd never met the man, although his reputation preceded him. He was brilliant, cold, cunning.

Not to mention, he was something of an ass.

Admittedly, that was my snap judgment, made when his first words were, "For God's sake. He jumped off a building today and survived without a scratch, and the one and only person in charge of his care allows him to fall in the bathtub a few hours later?"

For a split second, my anger flared.

"It was an accident, a mere slip in the tub," I told him.

"Nonetheless, I'll be requesting a more competent caregiver," Mycroft announced coldly.

"That would be the worst possible thing you could do for him," I said. I thought of the way Sherlock had leaned against me after he'd fallen in the tub; he was already starting to trust me. I wanted that trust to continue.

"He may suffer a setback if you do this," I warned.

"A setback worse than breaking his bloody nose?"

Inwardly, I flinched at his words. Outwardly, I kept my voice calm. "I thought you were the one who insisted on complete privacy and discretion in this case," I said. "We've already brought in a doctor. Now there are three of us who know the truth. Do you really want to make it four?"

The man set his mouth in a grim line. He knew I was right.

I glanced toward Sherlock's closed bedroom door, and could hear the doctor speaking to him. Sherlock wasn't responding much, however. That bothered me.

"Perhaps you could pop your head in and say hello," I suggested. "He's quite upset."

"I'm sure he's managing just fine," Mycroft said.

"He would benefit from a kind word," I said. "Or perhaps, a hug? A pat on the shoulder?"

The man just stared at me as if I'd suggested he fling himself off the top of the hospital.

A scream shattered the cold silence between us. The doctor's muffled voice rose in response, saying, "Sir, please. You must calm down."

"No!" was the anguished response. "No, no, no, no, no…"

The last "no" had broken off in a sob.

"Stay away from me," Sherlock was pleading then. "I don't want that… Please…"

I raised my eyebrow, certain that Mycroft would be the best comfort for his brother. Mycroft didn't meet my gaze, but he didn't move, either.

Something inside the room crashed; it sounded like a teacup striking the wall. "PLEASE!" Sherlock screamed. And then he was truly sobbing, gasping for air, heaving, "No… no… no…"

That was enough for me. I burst into the bedroom and was startled by the sight.

Sherlock was standing in the middle of his bed, his robe askew, his eyes wild. The doctor was standing on the floor, a hypodermic needle held in his hand.

Sherlock's face was crimson, in stark contrast with the white bandage wrapped over the bridge of his nose. The veins in his neck were tight, and I could see his pulse throbbing in his throat. Tears were streaming down his face, unchecked. His nose was dripping a mixture of mucous and blood.

In the next room, I could hear the door open and close with barely a sound. I hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice, and miraculously he didn't. I was grateful; I didn't want to explain to him that his brother had also abandoned him.

"What is going on here?" I demanded.

"I was going to give him a mild dose of medication," the doctor snapped. "For the pain. His nose is broken, and he has multiple contusions. And he's in the throes of a full-blown panic attack."

"Did you not read his chart?" I demanded. "He's a recovering addict."

The doctor had overlooked this information; I could see it in his eyes. But he was too haughty to admit it. "He needs to calm down, regardless. This will help."

"He was perfectly calm when I left the room!" I said. "Perhaps you're the source of this panic attack."

Sherlock turned his gaze to me, his teary eyes pleading. I walked to the edge of the bed and held out my hands. "Sit down, Sherlock."

I could feel his fingers tremble as he took my hands in his own. He sat down, hard, oblivious to the open gape of his bathrobe. I closed it gently, then wrapped the duvet around his shaking frame. He took my hands in his again, and I realized I was his lifeline, the only thing keeping his head above water.

My professional grip was slipping, leaving behind a fierce sense of protectiveness toward this suffering man.

For an undetermined amount of time, it was just going to be me and him against the world. Against the loneliness, the fear, the abandonment, the heart-crushing loss.

I was going to take care of him.

"This is absurd," the doctor snapped. "I'm his doctor."

I spun on him like a mother bear protecting her cub. "No, I am his doctor," I told him. "And as such, I can write him a prescription if he needs something for his anxiety.

"Thank you for your time," I said, before he could say another word. "I will walk you out."

The doctor gathered his things in a huff, and as he did so, I spared a smile for Sherlock. He sniffled in response and offered me a watery half-smile.

The doctor didn't wait for me to walk him to the door. He stalked out of the room, and a moment later, I heard the door slam shut.


	5. Chapter 5

:::: itty bitty author's note: I'm not a doctor. I'm not a psychiatrist. I've done some research for this story, but I apologize in advance for inaccuracies that may (ok, **will**) crop up. Thank you for reading!.::::

Conflict of Interest, 5/?

We were alone again, Sherlock and I. I'm sure we were quite the sight; I was standing in front of him still, and he was clinging to my hands as if his life depended on it. Tears and mucous and blood were still dripping from his chin, leaving faint patterns on my fingers as he continued to cry.

My heart cracked inside me, but I forced my voice to be firm. "All right," I said. "Sherlock, I need you to calm down."

Sherlock nodded, but he was gasping for air, sucking in his lower lip as he struggled to breathe.

"I think you are having a panic attack, like the doctor said," I said gently. "But I have to ask some questions just to make sure we don't need the doctor to come back, all right?"

He nodded jerkily, his eyes wide. That was the last thing he wanted to happen.

"Do you have asthma?" I asked.

"N-no."

"High blood pressure?"

He shook his head.

"Any history of heart disease?"

"No. NO!" He let go of my hands to clutch his chest, clawing at his lungs. "Please…"

I got to my feet and dashed into the office area. I'd brought a bagged lunch from home that afternoon; I shook the contents onto my desk and rushed back to his side with the crumpled paper bag.

I knelt in front of him, offering the bag. Sometimes people with panic attacks would panic further if someone placed a paper bag over their faces, but Sherlock understood and held the open bag over his mouth and nose.

"Good," I soothed. "Now, let's try some deep breathing."

His eyes fluttered closed, and I reached to grasp his forearms. "Sherlock. You're about to faint," I called. "Try to stay with me."

He began to sag, and I leaped up, sitting beside him so he could lean against me. Instinctively, my arm circled his tremoring shoulders. He set his forehead against my shoulder, trying so hard to catch his breath.

I counted aloud, encouraging him to inhale and exhale slowly and deliberately. I was nearly trying to breathe on his behalf.

After a few moments of gasping raggedly, I heard the blissful change as he was able to draw a deep breath. Still, he kept his head pressed against my shoulder, and I felt my blouse grow wet with his tears. I whispered to him, rubbing his back, and eventually he lowered the bag, dropping it weakly into his lap.

"What in God's name was that," he whispered.

"It was a normal reaction to all the trauma you've been through today," I said.

"Although I've never known anyone who jumped off a building to stage their own death," I added. "But I would assume this would be a normal reaction."

I felt him chuckle against my shoulder. He sat up then, embarrassed. I decided to give him a minute to compose himself.

"I'm going to get you some aspirin," I said. "I am guessing with the day you've had, you have a raging headache."

He nodded slightly.

"Have you eaten today?" I asked.

He had to think about it for a moment; then he shook his head.

"The hospital will start sending your meals in the morning," I explained. "For now, though, I'll make you some toast."

He parted his lips to protest, but I cut him off. "If you don't eat, I'd guarantee you'll be vomiting within a half hour of taking the medication," I said.

I didn't wait for his reply; I walked into the next room and puttered around the kitchenette, making toast and slathering it with butter and jam. I made tea as well and poured him a glass of water, fairly certain he was dehydrated from his earlier vomiting and the prolonged weeping.

I took my time, loading everything on a tea tray, and by the time I had returned to his room he had pulled himself together. The tears had stopped, although his face was still flushed and his eyes nearly swollen shut.

He ate slowly, as if he wasn't sure the food would stay in his stomach. We both sighed in relief when he managed to keep the food down and swallow some painkillers as well.

"Lie back now," I said gently. "You need to sleep."

He nodded and lay back against his pillows. I pulled the blankets up to cover him, lingering long enough to pat his shoulder.

I had read in his file that Sherlock had a long history of insomnia, but judging by his half-closed eyes his body was going to take the rest it desperately needed. Still, when I said, "I'll be next door if you need anything," those luminescent blue eyes opened fully. A look of fear creeped over his face.

"I'll just tidy up first," I said. He relaxed a bit then, and my suspicions were confirmed: he didn't want to be alone but wasn't willing to admit it. And so I cleaned the bathroom slowly, keeping the door open, throwing wet towels in a nearby laundry hamper, wiping at the slippery floor.

When I was finished with that, I cleaned up the broken teacup he'd thrown against the wall earlier, folded his clothes, put his shoes in the closet.

When my work was through, I glanced over at him and was met with a comforting sight: Sherlock Holmes, snuggled into his blankets, sound asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

It was the first thing I learned in medical school: the five stages of grief.

Throughout my career, the stages had shown themselves in every patient I had treated. After loss a person, by necessity, would experience them all; sometimes they would drift between two stages, sometimes the stages came out of order. But the stages were inevitable; necessary for healing.

As Sherlock left behind his life, his work and the people he loved, I could only imagine how those stages would present themselves.

Denial arrived quickly. The day after his fall, he simply stayed in his room. All the emotions from the day before had dried up and blown away like autumn leaves, leaving behind a breathing mannequin.

I was certain he would spend the day searching the Internet, reading article after article as the online tabloids happily gave the details of Sherlock's death. However, he never opened the laptop next to him. He didn't read, even though Mycroft had provided a pile of his brother's favorite books. He simply stayed in bed, too numb to even close his bedroom door.

He spent the day in denial, in isolation.

I was supposed to start intensive cognitive therapy immediately but I was exhausted from the day before and I knew he would be, too. I figured we could talk the next day. After all, neither of us had any place to go, with no pressing matters to attend.

I left him alone until that evening. It was the third time the dietician had arrived at our doorstep, with trays of food prepared for me. As far as the staff was concerned, I was a reclusive but brilliant shrink working on a difficult case; I was not to be disturbed except for the delivery of meals. Sherlock and I would be splitting the meals lest we raise suspicion over the number of occupants in my flat.

I still had uneaten leftovers from lunch, so I brought the freshly-delivered

dinner tray straight to Sherlock.

He didn't even turn his head to acknowledge me.

"It smells good," I added, setting the tray down beside him and whisking off the lid. "I'm sure it's delicious."

The words died in my throat as I eyed the two-toned sliced turkey, a dish of some sort of green vegetable swimming in white sauce, and a cup of red gelatin. Beside the plate sat a foil-covered cup of apple juice.

The smell of the food wafted through the room, and Sherlock absently wrapped his arm around his stomach, his mouth downturning.

"Are you nauseated?" I asked.

There was no response.

"Perhaps it tastes better than it looks," I suggested. I held up the parsley garnish. "This looks fresh, at least."

"I don't want it," he murmured.

"Nor do I," I joked. "But I have a sandwich to eat, so you're stuck with this."

He did not smile; his eyes didn't even flicker.

I sat down at the foot of his bed; he pulled his legs up so we wouldn't touch. This was a stark change from the night before, when he had clung to my hands as if they had been the only thing keeping him above water.

I put my hands in my lap, fighting the urge to pat his leg. "Sherlock, I know you're still in shock over all this and might not feel like eating," I told him quietly. "But you need to."

He licked his dry lips before answering. "Why?"

"To keep up your strength."

"For what? So I can sit here and stare at the ceiling?"

I eyed the glass of water and the cup of tea on his bedstand. The tea was filmy around the cup, untouched since the night before. "Have you drank anything today?" I asked. "You may still be dehydrated."

"Were you measuring my input?" he droned.

"Of course not."

He turned his head toward me. "Are you planning to measure my urine as well, Merry-with-an-E?"

"I wasn't, no," I said. "But I can if necessary."

"I am not dehydrated, nor am I in denial." He bit off the last word as if it was a curse.

"Denial. The first stage of grief," he droned. "The body's way of reacting to a loss, of protecting us. In which your mind simply does not accept a loss. You're forgetting one thing."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"I have not suffered a loss," he said.

"Sherlock, you've lost your best friend," I said gently.

He lifted himself up on his elbows, leveling me with his gaze. "I saved him," he said simply. "I did what I had to do. So, you see, I have effortlessly skipped over your five stages. I accept the loss."

His jaw tightened. "You're relieved of your duties, Merry-with-an-E."

"Thank you for the update," I said. Without skipping a beat, I reached for the cup on his dinner try. "Now drink your juice."


	7. Chapter 7

::: author's notes: Well, I didn't expect this chapter to be so angsty. I blame it on an ugly little scarf that popped up and insisted I tell its story.

Thank you SO much to Londoner 123 and Sarah for leaving reviews here. You really lifted my spirits!:::

Conflict of Interest, chapter seven

Sherlock drank his juice for me, but refused the rest of the dinner tray. Eventually I gave up on him and set the tray, mostly untouched, outside the door of our flat. I thought he was still needing time alone, so I wandered around the office, trying again in vain to scrub the bloodstains out of my sofa, reading the articles splashed across the front page of every online tabloid, updating my case notes.

During my note-writing, my eyes wandered, focusing on nothing in particular. It was then I noticed the worn suitcase sitting beside a chair. I frowned and crossed the room to get a better look at it. The suitcase had seen better days, but I could still make out the initials carved on a tiny brass plate near the case's lock.

"S.H."

I guessed Mycroft had dropped off the suitcase before his departure the night before, and I'd been too preoccupied to notice it. Or perhaps he had returned during the night while Sherlock slept and I had dozed not in my own bed, but on the stained sofa.

Had that unpleasant man entered the flat without me noticing it?

It was best not to ponder that idea too much.

Instead, I pondered the contents of the suitcase. It would be invading Sherlock's privacy to open the case, of course, but I worried that his brother might have packed the trunk with items that would cause Sherlock to break completely. Contrary to what Sherlock wanted me to believe, I knew his mind was in a precarious place. I wouldn't risk his well-being for his brother's agenda.

I picked up the suitcase, intending it to put it in the closet until I could discuss it properly with Sherlock, when I spied a multi-colored scarf lying crumpled beside it. Apparently Mycroft had brought this as well, although I couldn't imagine why.

The scarf was quite awful; it was exceedingly long and thin, spanning nearly color of yarn imaginable, with loose stitches decorating its surface. It smelled faintly of soap and something else, and I couldn't envision Sherlock wearing such an abomination.

I was distracted then by a small "ping" emitting from my laptop. I hadn't received a private message since going on "sabbatical" a few days earlier. Curiosity got the best of me and I returned to my desk.

_We have a situation._

I smirked; the last time I'd received an IM from Mycroft, I had agreed to lock myself away in a flat with his allegedly sociopathic brother.

I stifled a sarcastic reply; something along the lines of "Your brother is doing as well as can be expected, in case you were inquiring." My fingers were still poised over the keyboard when a second message appeared on the screen.

_We have a client with whom we need your assistance. Suicide watch. Hospitalization imminent. _

I sighed, then typed,

_Does this client have a name? _

I was interrupted then by Sherlock. He was standing in the doorway of his room, the light of his room silhouetting him from behind. I could barley make out his features, but he looked drowsy.

"Hello," I said, surprised. "I thought perhaps you'd fallen back to sleep."

"I'm thirsty," he said. "Is there more juice?"

"No, but I have water and milk some fizzy drinks in the refrigerator." I was so pleased he wanted to drink more that I jumped to my feet and hurried toward the kitchenette. I was just pulling out his choices when I heard him say, "How did you get this?"

I turned. He was standing beside the chair, and although he hadn't noticed the suitcase he was holding the scarf in his hands.

And his hands were trembling. The scarf had triggered something inside him. Something deep and, judging by his reaction, overwhelming.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" I asked, alarmed.

He lifted the scarf to his nose, inhaling deeply.

"This is John's," he whispered.

He turned on his heel and walked back into his bedroom.

I followed him and watched as he paced the room, his fingers gripping the ugly scarf.

"Was he here?" he demanded. "Does John know… does he know I survived?" His voice cracked on the last word.

I didn't want to tell him. I wanted the illusion to last, even for just a moment.

But I shook my head. "I think your brother might have dropped it by."

I saw the pain cross his face briefly, and then it was gone. "When?"

"I'm not certain," I admitted. "He was here yesterday while the doctor was examining you."

He accepted this information without further comment. But the burst of energy he'd had a moment earlier seemed to seep out of him, and he sat down on the edge of his bed. His eyes, focused on the scarf, blurred with sudden tears.

I sat beside him, whether he wanted me to or not. He didn't seem to even notice, his gaze was so intent on what I realized was not just an ugly scarf.

"Tell me about this," I said, reaching to finger the material.

"I made it," he whispered. Clearing the emotion from his throat, he added, "It started out as an experiment; I wanted to see if a murderous little grandmother could crochet a proper noose."

"Of course," I smiled.

"But then John said it would make a wonderful scarf, and that he would wear it proudly whenever it was raining." Sherlock sniffled and ran the back of his hand beneath his nose. "He was joking, of course, but he did wear it after that."

Sherlock's face crumpled then as another thought occurred to him. "He'll miss it," he murmured. "The next time it rains, he'll be looking for it. And he won't be able to find it. And…he'll be cold."

"I'm sure there are other scarves," I said gently, but he shook his head. "He'll be cold. John will be cold and it will be my fault."

He faced me, his tears running unchecked now. "He'll be cold."

At that moment I lost him to his sorrow. He was gone, perhaps shackled in the dungeons of his self-professed "mind palace." I had the feeling he didn't know I was there as he doubled at the waist, clutching the scarf to his face, drowning it in his tears, his sobs muffled by the material he'd shoved against his mouth.

I rubbed small circles against his back as he cried, heaved in sorrow, wishing like hell there was something I could do. I tried to soothe him. I tried to suggest we return the scarf to the flat without John noticing. But nothing helped.

It seemed to go on forever, even as he winced from the pain as the sobs tore at his battered body. I waited as long as I could but I had to intervene when the tears stopped rolling down his chapped cheeks, although he continued to shudder and choke. His body no longer had enough fluid to produce tears. I'd known this could happen but had never seen it myself. It was a dangerous condition.

I left him long enough to pour a glass of water and bring it back to him. He didn't seem to notice I had gone, so I nudged him when I returned. "Sherlock, you are very, very dehydrated now," I told him as gently as I could. "I need you to drink."

He didn't respond, so I put the glass into his hands. I didn't even think of taking the scarf from his fingers, but his fingers tightened around it nonetheless. I cradled the bottom of the glass, lifting it gently to his mouth. He drank despite himself. One sip, and then he guzzled the entire glass.

"Good," I soothed, and his eyes were focused; he was with me once again.

"More," he whispered.

I nodded and refilled his glass from the bathroom tap. He drank this as well with the same fervor. When he handed the glass to me again, I shook my head. "Let's wait a bit. It won't do you any good if you bring it back up."

He nodded wearily. "I think I need to lie down."

"I'm sure you have a bad headache," I said. "Would you like some aspirin?"

"Just sleep," he mumbled, keeling over on the bed. I stood up, refilled his glass and set it on the table. His eyes were already closing, his hands still holding the scarf to his face as if was a child's security blanket.

He hadn't covered himself yet, so I pulled the blankets, tucking them up beneath his chin. I couldn't resist stroking his hair, just once to smooth the unruly curls.

"If you need anything," I began.

"Mmm," he murmured. "I'll call you."

Satisfied with his answer, I wandered back into my office and sat at the desk, tapping the keys to wake up the screen. I'd forgotten my brief messages with Mycroft, but they were still there:

_MH 7:30 p.m: We have a situation._

_MH 7:35 p.m.: We have a client with whom we need your assistance. Suicide watch. Hospitalization imminent. _

_MerryMiddleton: 7:36 p.m: Does this client have a name?_

_MH: 7:38 p.m: Yes. _

_MH: 7:45 p.m.: Merry, are you there?_

_MH: 8:02 p.m. Merry?_

I glanced at the clock; nearly two hours had passed as I'd been trying to help Sherlock. I typed quickly.

_MerryMiddleton: 9:48 p.m. Yes, Mycroft, I am here. Who is this patient?_

I saw the icon flash immediately on the screen, indicating Mycroft was typing. But nothing could have prepared me for his reply.

_MH: 9:50 p.m. : John Watson. _


	8. Chapter 8

_MerryMiddleton: (9:58 p.m.) No._

Just in case my first text message to Mycroft Holmes wasn't clear enough, I sent another.

Merry Middleton: (9:59 p.m.) _Absolutely not._

I glanced over at Sherlock's room, suddenly wanting to make sure he wasn't witnessing this online conversation. From my vantage, I could see his curly head peeking out from beneath the duvet, and he was completely still. I fervently hoped he'd dropped off to sleep.

Just to be sure, I rose silently from my chair and tiptoed over to his doorway. He was, indeed, asleep. A stray tear- thank God, he was producing tears again- was drying on his flushed cheek. His lips were parted in sleep. He was snoring gently; his recent weeping jag had left him congested. The scarf was wrapped around his hand, his fingers still holding it loosely.

I heard the soft "ping" from my laptop and I reluctantly returned to my desk.

_MH: (10:01 p.m.) Need I remind you that you are still John Watson's therapist? _

_MerryMiddleton: (10:02 p.m.) He hasn't had an appointment in over a year. He's been doing very well. _

_MH: (10:03 p.m.) He isn't doing well at the moment. Understandably so, of course._

I poised my fingers over the keys, but couldn't think of what to type.

_MH: (10:05 p.m.) Dr. Middleton, am I correct in assuming you developed a relationship with John Watson during the time he was under your care? _

At that moment, I disliked this man even more than usual. I took a deep, cleansing breath before responding.

_Merry Middleton: (10:06 p.m.) Answering that question would breech doctor/patient confidentiality, Mr. Holmes. I'm assuming you aren't asking me to break that confidentiality?_

_MerryMiddleton: (10:06 p.m.) In addition, Mr. Holmes, are you familiar with the term "conflict of interest?"_

I didn't wait for a response. Infuriated by his line of questioning, I closed the laptop, effectively shutting him up for a moment.

Whether we admitted it or not, every psychiatrist established some kind of relationship with each of our patients. We earned their trust, we handed them tissues as they wept. We were their voices of reason and their shoulders to cry on.

We wouldn't be human if we didn't care about them in return.

We didn't forget them, either. Just the mention of John's name brought back a rush of case notes:

John Watson, diagnosed with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after two tours in Afghanistan. He'd suffered a gunshot wound to his left shoulder, which shattered bone and grazed the subclavian artery. The wound had healed well, but since returning to civilian life, John had suffered from Somatic Symptom Disorder involving pain and numbness in his right leg. He'd also suffered from an intermittent tremor in his hands due to excessive anxiety.

In my mind's eye, I could see my own handwriting scrawled across his file notes: _Nightmares. Loneliness. Trust issues._

If I'd been his friend, I would have suggested he take up volunteer work or join an online dating service. As his therapist, I had suggested he start a blog, which would teach him to share himself with others, to consciously think of the good and bad parts of each day and to force him to focus outside his own memories.

He had taken my advice. And his best friend, the same man now sleeping in the next room, had provided him with ample fodder throughout the years.

I felt I was betraying that man who slept so near, completely unaware of what was transpiring, just by having this conversation with his brother.

But was I ignoring John in his darkest hour by ignoring Holmes' messages?

Not surprisingly, there was a message waiting when I opened the laptop again.

_MH: (10:08 p.m.) What took you so long?_

The bastard. I could almost see his smug face through his text message.

_MerryMiddleton: (10:11 p.m.) What happened?_

_MH: (10:12 p.m.) John Watson is insisting Sherlock is alive._

As if on cue, there was a loud snore from the bedroom next door, and a shuffling as Sherlock muttered in his sleep.

_MerryMiddleton: (10:13 p.m.) Why does he think that?_

_MH: (10:14 p.m.) He visited the morgue today to view the body._

Not **the** body. Your brother's body, I added silently.

_MH: (10:15 p.m.) He was refused entrance, naturally. After this, he seemed quite disoriented. We thought we'd need to take him to the hospital, but that has been avoided. _

_MH: (10:15 p.m.) For the time being._

_MerryMiddleton: (10:16 p.m.) Where is he?_

_MH: (10:17 p.m.) 221B Baker St. _

_MerryMiddleton: (10:17 p.m.) He's not alone?_

_MH: (10:18 p.m.) No._

Thank God for that, I thought. My fingers flew across the keyboard.

_MerryMiddleton: (10:18 p.m.) Is he stable?_

_MH: (10:19 p.m.) For the moment._

_MH: (10:20 p.m.) Distraught, naturally. Breaking things. I doubt there are any teacups left intact._

_MH: (10:20 p.m.) Unable to stop weeping. Tearing the apartment apart, insisting he's lost something._

_MH: (10:21 p.m.) My bet is on his mind._

I clenched my jaw. This man was cold.

_MH: (10:19 p.m.) Mrs. Hudson finally talked him into resting in Sherlock's bed. She nearly had to recline with him. It was pathetic._

Anger bubbled inside me as I stared at the laptop screen. I simply couldn't supply a rational response to such nastiness.

But then I didn't need to respond as I heard the disturbance coming from the room next door. A whimper in the back of his throat at first. The throaty moan of someone locked inside a nightmare.

Before I could even tell Mycroft Holmes that I needed to go, that his brother needed me, Sherlock found his voice. The scream erupted from him, high and shrill, and I slammed the laptop shut without typing another word.


	9. Chapter 9

"Sherlock. Can you hear me?"

He'd opened his eyes by the time I had burst into his room, but he still stared straight ahead, those crystal blue eyes darting back and forth, searching for something only he could see. He clutched handfuls of the duvet as if it would keep him from drowning in an unseen ocean.

"Sherlock," I repeated. "It's time to wake up." I reached and lay my hand gently on his shoulder. He jerked beneath my touch, but after a moment he exhaled in a rush and his shoulders slumped. I knew he had slipped from the dream's clutches.

"All right now?" I asked.

He turned to me, blinking rapidly. "Have you been standing here the entire time? Staring at me like I'm a specimen in a jar?"

"You cried out in your sleep," I explained. "I wanted to be sure you were all right."

Truthfully, I wasn't certain he was all right. His cheeks were flaming red. He had very nearly shrugged out of his robe entirely during the night terror; his chest was bare and sticky with perspiration. There was a smear of blood beneath his nose and across his cheek.

"Are you feverish?" I reached to touch his forehead, but he pushed my hand away and shoved the duvet aside.

I waited patiently as he stomped into the bathroom and closed the door with a slam. The toilet flushed, the water ran in the sink. A few moments later he emerged, his face freshly scrubbed, wearing fresh pajamas and scowling as he passed me by.

As soon as he'd settled himself in bed again, I held out his water glass. "Drink, Sherlock. You were heavily perspiring, so you've lost fluids again. You need to drink."

"If you wouldn't be forcing fluid down my throat every millisecond, perhaps I would have been able to sleep without getting up," he said.

I lifted my eyebrow. "Oh, is that what you were doing?" I asked. "The whole screaming-to-wake-the-dead bit, that was just because you needed to relieve yourself?"

"That's right, I'm just a madman screaming in the night," he bit back. "I should see a psychiatrist.

"No wait…. Perhaps I'll just move into a flat with one. How bloody convenient."

I smiled. "Ah. I see we've moved from denial to anger.'"

"I'm not **angry,**" he snapped.

"My mistake." I held out the glass of water again.

He huffed at me and rolled away, pulling the blankets up over his head.

"That's fine," I said. "There are plenty of IV fluids in the emergency room down the hall.

"Although giving subcutaneous fluids has never been my strong suit," I mused. "I think it's because the needles are just so large… And I can never seem to find the vein on the first try. It usually takes three, four stabs before I can nick it just right…"

He rolled on to his back, threw off the bedding and snatched the glass from my hand. After draining half of the contents, he handed the glass back and burrowed under the covers like a mole.

I was about to leave him when I spied the colorful, odd little scarf pooled on the floor. He hadn't noticed he had dropped it, but I didn't want him to panic if he woke to find it missing. I picked it up and folded it gently.

"Sherlock." I tucked it next to his blanket-covered head. "Here you go. You dropped this."

One hand snaked from beneath the blanket, and his fingers tightened around the fabric.

"There you are," I soothed. "Try to get some rest now."

For a moment, I envied him, curled beneath the warm bed covers. I knew my bedroom featured the same, cream-colored, gender-neutral duvet and I yearned to climb beneath it and sleep for a very long time.

However, that room seemed too far away from my patient, and so I settled myself on the office sofa, covering myself with a scratchy afghan that didn't seem nearly warm enough for this chilly, rainy night.

I fell asleep, listening to Sherlock's muffled snores, reassured by every steady breath.


	10. Chapter 10

I slept uneasily throughout the night, as if my mind waited for Sherlock to be seized by another night terror. I was relieved when my fears didn't come to fruition, but I knew we weren't out of the woods yet.

I could still hear the rain pounding against the window when morning came. It would be another dreary day, but at least Sherlock had slept during the night. So had I, which was good since I'd need every ounce of strength for the morning ahead.

Mycroft Holmes had sent me a text shortly after I'd turned off the laptop the night before.

_MH: (11:33 p.m.) Please meet John Watson at your Lillydale Street office 9 a.m. Contact me if there's a problem._

"Thanks for the advanced notice," I muttered.

There was no point in arguing, so I opened the front door, hoping the breakfast tray was waiting. It was, and a pot of hot water and several tea bags accompanied the meal.

Beside the tray sat a cardboard box with my name scrawled across it.

I brought everything inside and closed the door. The meal and tea forgotten, I opened the box with trepidation. Inside was a stack of newspapers, topped with a simple note:

"For your information.—MH."

There must have been a dozen newspapers, each of them different, all of them showing stock pictures of Sherlock, wearing his ridiculous crime-sleuthing hat and a scowl.

The headlines screamed from each front page:

"Super Slueth dies in hospital fall!"

"Sleuth determined a fake, jumps to death."

"Police reports fake genius suicide!"

One tabloid even featured a fuzzy photo, obviously taken with a cellular phone, of Sherlock's bloody body, twisted across the unforgiving sidewalk. A nurse dressed in scrubs was standing spread-eagled in front of Sherlock, her arms held wide, trying to shield the gruesome sight.

In that same issue, a smaller photograph of John Watson was framed in the corner of the front page. This, too, was a stock photo, apparently taken from one of the many times Sherlock had received commendations for his sleuth work. John's smile was forced; I could imagine him whispering to his friend, begging him to behave in front of the press.

The caption beneath the photo read, "John Watson gives exclusive interview, calls best friend 'a fraud and a liar.'"

I refused to read such rubbish. And I most certainly didn't want Sherlock to see it. Stuffing the newspapers into my bottom desk drawer, I glanced at the clock on the mantle; I only had an hour before I needed to be at my office.

I ate a piece of toast and left the breakfast things on the countertop for Sherlock to find. After showering and dressing, I peeked into his room.

He was still asleep, and I knew that if I awakened him he would never go back to sleep. I couldn't do that to him; he needed the rest so badly.

I watched him for a moment. He was lying on his stomach, his cheek nestled against the pillows. The scarf was still wrapped around his wrist.

Really, I wasn't comfortable leaving him. However, since I hadn't been given a choice in the matter, I wrote him a note.

_Sherlock, I need to run an errand. I will be back before noon.—Merry._

_PS Eat something. _

Propping the note against his half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, I reassured myself by pausing to listen to his breathing. It was even and deep. He showed no signs of dreaming; his face was calm, his features smooth.

He was in a deep, deep slumber. Perhaps he wouldn't even know I'd gone.

So why did it bother me so much to turn my back on him and walk away?


	11. Chapter 11

I arrived at my office on Lillydale Street just a few minutes before nine. While I waited, I made sure there was a full box of tissues and a glass of water on the coffee table. I was too nervous to sit; I fluffed pillows, fussed with the curtains, and was about to check my email when I heard the office door open.

I barely recognized the broken man in front of me.

John Watkins shuffled in, his feet heavy. A woman- she introduced herself as Mrs. Hudson, "John and Sherlock's landlady,"-came in as well. She kept her arm tightly around him, silently daring me to ask her to leave.

"Why don't you both have a seat?" I invited. "I can pull up another chair-"

"I can handle it from here, Mrs. Hudson," John croaked.

"Are you sure, dear?" she asked.

He didn't look at all sure, but he nodded. "Yeah."

"I'll just be right outside, then." She pecked his cheek, and then the tenderness left her face as she turned her red-rimmed eyes to me. Clearly, she wanted me to know she could-and would- defend him if I upset him further.

She closed the door on her departure, leaving us alone. I turned my attention to John. "Can I get you anything?"

John's eyes were as grey and cloudy as the weather outside the window. He shook his head, limped to the chair opposite mine and sank into it heavily.

"This was Mrs. Hudson's idea," he said quietly. "She thought it would help me if I talked about… everything."

"It's good to see you, John," I said. This was the truth; it was reassuring to see him with my own eyes, to assess he was still in his right mind.

But he was sad. So, terribly sad. I could see it in every ounce of him, the way his shoulders slumped, the way his eyes were dry and glazed. The pain was nearly palpable.

"May I ask you a question?" I asked.

He nodded listlessly.

"Why today?"

I watched him closely. His eyes flared with a hint of anger.

"You want to hear me say it?" he demanded.

"Eighteen months since our last appointment…" I reminded.

He stared at me with disbelief. "You read the papers?"

"Sometimes." Unwillingly, my mind recalled the headlines I'd read earlier.

"And you watch telly?" he queried.

I nodded slightly.

"You know why I'm here." I heard the anger in his voice, but in a second it had dissolved into sorrow as he tried valiantly to speak.

"I'm here because…" The words dried up in his throat. I leaned forward to encourage him. He, too, needed to start the grieving process. I knew him well enough to know he'd need to be pushed a little.

"What happened, John?" I asked.

He tried to speak, but nothing came out.

"Sher…" He cleared his throat. He tried to meet my gaze.

"You need to get it out," I encouraged.

His eyes dropped to his lap as he struggled.

"My best friend….Sherlock Holmes…" He sniffled hard. "Is dead."

There was a long silence after that as John struggled mightily to remain in control. I waited patiently for him to speak again.

Eventually, he did. "He said such crazy things. While he was standing on that ledge," he mumbled. "He told me he was a fake. He'd made it all up. He was…" John's face crumpled at the memory. "He was crying, I could hear it in his voice. I told him to shut up… But I wanted to tell him more. He was the best man I've ever known. I knew he wouldn't lie to me.

"But I didn't tell him any of that."

"Why not?"

He startled at my question; he'd forgotten I was in the room.

"I figured we would talk about it later, when he came down," he said. "I thought maybe he was high. Or tired. He would do the craziest things when he was too tired to think straight. Or maybe this was just one of his stupid experiments.

"I figured he'd just calm down and we'd go have dinner somewhere," he said. "I was going to suggest he make an appointment to talk to you."

I had to fight to keep the grimace from my face.

"And then he just… he just dropped his phone. I heard the crack when he dropped it. I was still on the line when he… he just…stepped off like he was stepping off a street curb…"

John had clapped his hand over his mouth now, his eyes fluttering closed in agony.

I called his name to regain his attention. When he faced me, I spoke.

"The stuff that you wanted to say, but didn't say it," I began.

"Yeah…"

"Say it now."

Say it now, I pleaded silently. And I will tell him for you.

John should have been furious with me for pushing him so ruthlessly. But he was, if nothing, always polite. He shook his head. "No," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I… c-can't."

He turned his head away, but all hope of holding together his emotions was lost as he began to weep.

In all our time together, I had never seen John Watson shed a single tear. He had told me about war buddies being blown to bits in front of his eyes, he had told me about murdered children and innocent lives lost.

He had said it all with the clinical view of a doctor who simply could not let himself feel a tenth of what he heard and saw.

I could understand those feelings. My professional detachment was slipping fast as John bent at the waist, quiet sobs rumbling from deep inside him.

"John," I whispered. "It's okay."

The sobs tore loose, gaining sound and momentum, and soon he was crying so hard that Mrs. Hudson heard him and had burst into the door. "That's enough, that's just enough for today," she cried. "We still have to get through the funeral tomorrow."

She, too, was weeping as she stalked to John's side. He allowed her to help him to his feet, pressing the handle of his cane into his hand. she wrapped her arms around John and lifted him to his feet. He shielded his face with his other hand, embarrassed by his outbreak.

"It's all right, dear," she hushed. "Come home, I'll make you some tea."

I stood, too. "John, if you need to talk…"

He couldn't speak; he just shook his head. Mrs. Hudson shot me a dirty glance over her shoulder as she led him out of the room.

When their footsteps had faded down the hall, I slumped back in my chair.

"Sometimes," I said to the empty room, "I very much dislike my job."

**Author's notes** Thank you so much for taking the time to read what I *thought* was going to be a one-shot story. I guess I've gotten a little carried away.

This chapter wiped me out. g I think I need a nap!

Your feedback has been so kind. Thank you again for reading! ****


	12. Chapter 12

I was nearly assaulted by a flying cellular phone as I stepped back into the flat.

Sherlock's phone bounced off the wall with a thunk and landed, in pieces, on the floor at my feet.

Sherlock himself was standing in the middle of the room, still in his pajamas, his hands gripped at his sides, his chest heaving with anger. It looked as if one of the storm clouds from outside had infiltrated the flat and was hovering directly over my patient.

I leaned to pick up the remains of his phone. "Problem?" I asked mildly.

"There's something wrong with this bloody phone," he snarled. "I've been trying to get a signal for over an hour."

"Who were you going to call?" I asked.

He set his jaw, defiance personified. "I was going to check for messages," he gritted out.

"Why?" I asked mildly. "You can't return them. You're not supposed to be…" I couldn't finish the sentence.

He finished it for me. "Alive. I am well aware."

Suddenly, his eyes narrowed with realization. "My phone has been disabled."

I nodded. "For your protection. And the protection of others. You and your brother were the ones who came up with these rules, remember?"

"Yes," he muttered, and the anger seemed to drain from his body. He threw himself into the armchair and let his head fall back. He still looked exhausted.

"You can use the Internet on your laptop if you'd like," I said. "I have the password for that if you need it.

"But you cannot send messages to anyone," I added. "Not even your friends."

"Friend," he bit out. "Singular."

"You mean John," I said. I wanted to gauge his reaction in hearing the name.

As I expected, he froze. For a moment, his chin trembled. Just as quickly as it had appeared, the emotion disappeared as Sherlock wiped all expression from his face.

"I don't want to talk about John," he said.

"We have to start talking at some point," I said. "Otherwise, I'm not doing my job. Let's meet after lunch, all right?"

My head had been pounding for the last hour and I wanted to lie down in my room, to close the door on the whole situation just for a little while.

But as I walked toward my bedroom, Sherlock jumped to his feet, whirling on me. "Where were you this morning?"

"With a patient," I said. "A special case. One that couldn't wait."

He stalked over to me, peering into my eyes as if he could read my thoughts.

"You have dark smudges under your eyes," he said. "Partially because you rubbed your hand over your eyes without remembering you were wearing mascara, but mostly because this morning was a terrible strain on your emotional reserves."

I opened my mouth to protest, but he cut me off. "You have a pocket full of used tissues, far more than you could have used by yourself unless you'd been crying or having a terrible struggle with seasonal allergies, either of which would make your eyes bloodshot. However, your eyes are not bloodshot, and considering you have a habit of picking up around your office and putting the contents in your pockets until you are near a waste bin, I'm guessing your client left them behind after a very emotional and tearstained session."

I didn't say a word. I didn't have to.

His eyes widened. "No."

I turned away from that penetrating gaze. "Sherlock, I need to rest a bit, all right?"

"It was John."

What was the point in lying to him? He could read the truth as if was printed across my face. "It was only one session," I said. "I will find a new doctor who will take good care of him, all right?"

"No!" He grabbed my shoulders, holding them tightly. "You have to be his doctor."

"It's a conflict of interest, Sherlock."

"Please."

"No, Sherlock. There are many gifted doctors out there. I know professionals in the field, the very best ones."

He shook his head, despairing. "No. Please. Please be his friend." His eyes were brimming with sudden tears. He blinked hard and they began to course down his face.

I knew that Sherlock could cry whenever it was to his advantage, but these tears were real. Watching him weep made me want to weep as well.

"For me," he whispered. "Please do this for me."

"You're asking the impossible."

"I know." He nodded fervently. "I wouldn't ask if I wasn't desperate. And I am desperate, Merry. Please."

His voice cracked. "Please take care of John."

My heart ached for Sherlock. He had lost everything and everyone he'd ever held dear. He had stepped off the ledge of St. Bart's, knowing exactly what he was doing.

I wondered if I was being asked to do the same thing.

I took a deep breath to gather my strength.

"I wouldn't be able to tell you what he said in his sessions," I warned.

He shook his head fervently. "Of course not."

"And I wouldn't be able to tell him about you."

"No. No, that would put him danger."

I swore under my breath. And Sherlock took that as a "Yes."

To my amazement, he threw his arms around me, shuddering, his breath huffing in my ear.

I raised my arms to hold him as he wept.


	13. Chapter 13

"When you step off a ledge, you don't fall right away."

Sherlock was lying back on my sofa, his feet propped up, his fingers tented beneath his chin.

He'd been talking for well over an hour. It was our first therapy session in the flat, and while he had avoided talking about "my bloody feelings," as he succinctly put it, he was willing to talk about the fall itself.

"Before that moment, you still think you can step away," he said. "Until then, you might be able to back down. But then that moment passes, and you can't change your mind and step back.

"Then you hang in the air for a second. After that, it's like a jumping on a trampoline, but instead of shooting up to the sky you're shooting down to the ground. And the ground comes up to meet you. Like a lover's kiss."

He shuddered, the memory causing his hands to tremble as he reached for his teacup. He noticed the tremor at the same time I did, and I was about to ask him about it when he announced, "I'm bored. Can we stop talking now?"

I nodded. "Of course."

He set down the cup and stood up, as if he had somewhere to go. When he realized he didn't, he sat back down.

I had been waiting for the boredom to build inside him. Judging from the cloudy look on his face, it had arrived with a vengeance.

"If you're interested, there's movies on your laptop," I offered. "And there's books, and the internet, of course… Sudoku games…"

"The internet password?" He loathed asking me for it, and I loathed withholding it.

I gave him today's password- Mycroft had said he would change it daily to ensure his brother "behaved"- and without another word, Sherlock disappeared into his room. I thought he might need time alone after our session, but he wandered back into the office, plopping dramatically onto the sofa, his laptop in hand.

"Sudoku," he muttered.

"Hush," I smiled.

The next few hours passed peacefully. I worked on a backlog of paperwork and he surfed the 'net without a sound, save for the "clicks" of his mousepad. When he tired of that, he wandered into his bedroom. A moment later, I heard the television turn on and heard the familiar music that signaled the beginning of the evening news.

I went back to my paperwork but after a moment, I realized the television journalist was talking about Sherlock.

"The funeral for former super sleuth Sherlock Holmes is set for tomorrow morning. Police don't believe there will be many mourners in attendance, but they are prepared for the possibility of an angry crowd gathering. Holmes was a hero in crime-fighting circles until he confessed he was a fraud just before his death…"

I wasn't sure this was a good idea. I got to my feet and lingered in the doorway of his bedroom. He didn't notice; his eyes were focused only on the television screen. His body language was radiating distress; he had pulled his knees up under his chin and wrapped his arms around them, holding himself in a tight ball. He was rocking slightly back and forth.

"Is this upsetting you?" I asked. "Perhaps we should turn it off."

He shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

The television journalist continued. "Despite the fact most critics believe Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, some devoted fans have turned out for a candlelight vigil at the former detective's flat…"

"Former consulting detective," he mumbled.

Across the screen flashed footage of 221 B Baker Street, where fans had created a small shrine of flowers and teddy bears and handwritten notes. The devoted few

stood on the sidewalk, holding candles. One was wearing a knock-off of Sherlock's ridiculous hat.

Sherlock's expression softened, seeing this.

I was about to remind him that he was still loved when the video switched to footage of John, trying to walk past the shrine to get into the flat. Mrs. Hudson was at his side, and I wondered if this had been filmed as they were returning from our therapy appointment. John was red-eyed and pale as he turned to face the camera.

"This is all I have to say," John began, his voice trembling. "In the past few days I've realized Sherlock Holmes was a fraud and a liar.

"And anyone who commits suicide instead of facing the truth is just… a coward."

Sherlock made a small sound- a whimper, perhaps. He picked up the remote control and stopped the newscast, rewinding it and watching the previous ten seconds.

He listened to John's words again. And again. And again.

Every viewing broke his heart-and mine- a little more.

Finally, I reached over and took the remote from his hand, pressing the "pause" button. "Stop," I whispered.

My voice broke his trance; he looked up at me, his eyes wide and brimming.

"Someone is making him say these things," I said. "You know he didn't mean a word of it."

"How do you know?" he mumbled. "It's what I told him."

"Because he would never believe such nonsense. I know John," I said. "And more importantly, you know John."

His eyes wandered back to the screen, which was frozen on John's tear-strained face.

Sherlock pressed his forehead to his knees and sobbed.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock Holmes was not a sociopath.

Of course, I already knew that, but this moment would have destroyed any lingering doubts.

This man heard his best friend call him a liar, a fraud and a coward. And this man, the supposedly cold-hearted sociopath, shattered.

He was pressing his forehead into his drawn-up knees, his entire back bowed against the emotional pain radiating from him. His weeping, silent at first, flared into sobs, which flared into open-mouthed wails as he choked, "No… no…" over and over.

I sat down beside him, rubbing his shoulders as he heaved with his weeping. I wanted to hold him close, to rock him in my arms as if he was a child, to let that torrent of tears dry against my shoulder, but I'd already broken enough rules that day and didn't think I should push the boundaries of professionalism any further than they'd already been pushed. I settled for patting his back and talking to him in a firm voice. "Sherlock, you're not a coward," I said. "You know that. You're very, very brave. You know that and so does John."

He didn't seem to hear me over the hysterical sounds bubbling from his throat. "I have to tell him the truth," he choked. "He has to know."

He pulled away from me, and then I could see his face: eyes wild, the bandage on his broken nose soggy and peeling, cheeks flushed bright, mouth downturned. The sight of him momentarily paralyzed me.

In an instant he was on his feet, stumbling toward the door, intending to dash outside and escape without benefit of shoes or a coat.

I caught up with him as he was struggling to unlock the door to our flat. "Sherlock, no," I said. "You have to think about why you're doing all this."

He groaned and pushed me aside. "I don't care."

"Sherlock! Think of Greg Lestrade! Think of Mrs. Hudson! And most of all, focus on JOHN!" I forced my body between his and the door and grabbed him by the shoulders.

"Focus, Sherlock!" I nearly shouted the words, but it got his attention. He stopped struggling, his arms falling limply to his sides. His chest heaved with exertion as his eyes locked with mine. Gently, I took his face in my hands, stroking his cheeks soothingly with my thumbs. Sherlock's tears ran hot and wet across my knuckles.

"You can't do this," I said quietly. I hated being the voice of reason, especially when my entire being wanted to let him do exactly that: to tell John, to bring an end to all this suffering.

"Are you listening to me, Sherlock?"

He nodded shakily.

Sympathy welled inside me, making my heart ache for this man. It didn't seem fair. This elaborate scheme, and the consequences of it, were monumental. He had done this for his friends. He had done this for John. And he'd broken both of their hearts in the process.

"Let's go back in your room, all right?" I suggested. "We need to change the bandage on your nose."

He followed me wordlessly into his bedroom, and after I'd mopped away his tears, rebandaged his nose and made him drink a glass of water, I tried to talk him down from his figurative ledge.

"I want to watch this footage again," I said. "And I want you to look and listen.

"There are things people do when they are lying, Sherlock. They give themselves away with what they say and do. Let's look for those signs. All right?"

I picked up the remote control and pressed the "play" button, and John flitted across the screen, repeating the hateful words that had broken Sherlock Holmes. I paused the video.

"His voice is monotone," Sherlock said. "And cold."

"That's right," I encouraged. I hit the "play" button and we listened to John's words again. Sherlock's eyes brimmed with fresh tears as John spoke, and I pressed the "pause" button quickly

"See that long pause? That's where he's picking his words," I said. "He's making this up. The signs of a liar are there, Sherlock. He's lying."

"That's impossible," he said thickly.

"'When you have eliminated the impossible,'" I quoted. "'Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

A corner of his mouth quirked. The quote was his, given to a magazine reporter a few months earlier.

We were interrupted by the knock at the door, signaling our dinner had arrived. I retrieved the tray and brought it to him.

"Hungry?" I set the tray down and whisked away the cover, revealing cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Sherlock's stomach growled loudly in response.

"I know you didn't eat lunch today," I said. "And it didn't look as if you'd touched the breakfast tray while I was away."

I thought about the day before. "Sherlock, did you eat yesterday?"

He just shrugged.

"You're absolutely eating right now." I picked up half of a sandwich for myself and handed him a spoon. "Get started."

He sipped at the soup, making a face. "It tastes like plastic."

"That's the spoon," I said. "Just eat."

He peered closely at the spoon, making a face of distaste.

"Eat that, and I'll go out for pizza tomorrow," I said.

His mouth quirked slightly at my promise, and he took another spoonful of soup into his mouth. I knew he was forcing the food for my behalf, but I was all right with that.

When the bowl was half-empty, he grimaced, laying his palm against his stomach.

I was instantly on alert. "Is it making you ill?"

"A little," he admitted.

I took his bowl away and set it in the office so it wouldn't make his stomach turn.

"You did well," I said over my shoulder. "Tomorrow we'll eat pizza."


	15. Chapter 15

"I want to ask a favor of you."

Sherlock's words pulled me away from the book I was reading.

It was late, and I thought he had drifted off to sleep. I had sat with him in his room until he'd finally relaxed, lying limply against his pillows, trying to read a book and battling to keep his eyes open.

Apparently, sleep had not come as I'd hoped. I peered at him over the top of my reading glasses. "A favor?" I repeated. "Should I be frightened?"

He didn't smile at my half-attempt at humor. "Can I interest you in a funeral tomorrow?" he asked. "With any luck it will be fraught with weeping and depressed people in need of your services. You could drum up fresh clientele."

It was odd, hearing Sherlock's voice clinical and standoffish, as if he hadn't been crying broken-heartedly just a few hours earlier. As if he wasn't asking me attend his own funeral.

"Why?" I asked.

"I'd simply like a report as to who attends. And, more importantly, who doesn't." His eyes narrowed. "Some serial killers attend the funerals of their victims. They're drawn to the mourning, they enjoy seeing the sorrow."

"All right, but I wonder if there's more to it than that," I said. "Be truthful."

He lowered his gaze to the ground, but didn't respond.

I softened my voice. "It's John," I said. "You want me to make certain he's all right."

"Of course not," he mumbled. "He has Mrs. Hudson… Lestrade …Molly…"

"But they won't be enough," I said. "That's what you're worried about, isn't it? You'd prefer to have a professional there in case John needs one."

Despite his clinical tone, his emotions were still just below the surface, threatening to wash over him at any moment. His mouth trembled; he pressed the back of his hand against his lips to make it stop. When he had regained control, he dropped his hand and straightened his shoulders. "I let John down once," he said. "I don't want to do it again."

"Let him down? How?"

"If I had only found a way to warn him before I…"

"Jumped," I supplied, so he wouldn't have to say the word.

He nodded grimly. "If only I had just moved a little more quickly, deduced things a little faster… If I could have just found the snipers in time…

"At the very least, if I could have found a way to tell him it was an act…he could have gone on with his life without thinking that I had taken mine. He would have at least known the truth."

"You know what this is, correct?" I asked quietly.

"Of course I know what it is," he said impatiently. "Stage three of grief. 'Bargaining,' Trying to make a deal with a higher power in an attempt to fix the loss. In the third stage, people ponder what they could have done differently to change the outcome of the situation."

"People in this stage often start their sentences with the words, 'if only,'" I added. "Unfortunately, 'if only' is the most unproductive phrase in the English language.

"You can't change it, Sherlock. You just can't."

He dropped his gaze to the floor again. He was fighting his tears, but I didn't think he'd be able to hold them back much longer.

I didn't want to do this. I was reticent to leave him alone on a day that would undoubtedly be difficult for him as well. But if I attended the funeral, if I was available for John on this terrible day, would it help Sherlock in his healing process? Would it give him closure somehow?

I sighed heavily. "I'll go, Sherlock."

He raised his eyes, and a single tear slipped down his left cheek. "Thank you."

I smiled and he returned the smile. At that moment, what I was about to do seemed completely worth the risk.

"Do you think you'll be able to sleep now?" I asked.

"Yes." He turned and walked back to his bedroom. In the doorway, he turned back.

"Merry."

"Yes?"

I thought he would thank me. But in true Sherlock form, he said, "Don't forget to pick up pizzas on your way back."


	16. Chapter 16

The media had grossly underestimated the popularity of Sherlock Holmes.

By the time I arrived at St. Matthew's Church the next morning, the sanctuary was overflowing with mourners. Police were posted on the church's stairs, keeping the press and the crowds at bay.

On the lawn outside the church, Sherlock's fans had gathered; some were still wearing their silly hats and holding large signs that read, "We believe in you!" and "Sherlock lives!" I smiled at them as I hurried past, wondering if they somehow knew the truth. Of course they didn't. It was all wishful thinking as far as they were concerned.

Only a few of us knew the truth.

As I walked by, a little girl caught my attention. She was about six years old and holding the largest bouquet of flowers I'd ever seen. She offered me a shy smile, and I returned it. "That's a lovely bouquet," I said.

"Julie picked all the flowers in our garden," her mother said affectionately. "She thought Mr. Holmes deserved every single bloom, didn't you, sweetheart?" She patted her daughter's head and turned to me. "Did you know Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, banishing my nagging worry about the man I'd left alone. "He was a very good man."

"He was much more than that," the woman said. "Sherlock Holmes helped find my daughter after she was kidnapped." Her voice failed her for a moment, but she gathered her emotions, tucking them inside so she could speak again.

"Julie had vanished without a trace, and the police couldn't find a lead," she said. "But Mr. Holmes found her in just a few hours' time. Brought her back to us safe and sound."

The woman's lower lip trembled, but she caught it with her teeth. She didn't want to cry in front of her daughter.

"We will be forever indebted to him," she whispered. "And we won't believe the bad things people are saying about him."

The girl tugged on her mother's sleeve, and her mother smiled. "No, darling, I'm sorry. They aren't letting any more people into the church." To me, she explained, "She'd wanted to bring the flowers to Mr. Holmes' coffin. She even drew a picture for him." She reached into her pocket and unfolded a piece of paper, depicting a picture of little Julie, holding Sherlock's hand. Both of them were smiling. In unsteady print, the girl had written, "Thank you."

I had to clear the emotion from my throat before I could kneel in front of the little girl and speak. "I know Mr. Holmes' friends," I told her. "Their names are Mr. Watson and Mrs. Hudson. I'll bet they would appreciate your flowers very much. And your picture, too. Would you like to go into the church with me for a moment?

"If it's all right with you," I added, lifting my eyes to her mother.

This time, the woman's tears did spill down her cheeks. "Oh, yes, thank you."

"I'll bring her back in just a few moments, then." I tucked the picture into my pocket and held out my hand, smiling as the little girl slipped her hand in mine. Together, we climbed the stairs to the church. Mycroft Holmes was standing at the top of the staircase, and he frowned when he saw me. I lifted my eyebrows, daring him to say something, and he wisely closed his mouth and opened the door.

It was easy to find John; he was standing vigil beside Sherlock's closed coffin, his tremoring hand resting against the mahogany wood. Mrs. Hudson and a white-haired couple, whom I assumed were Sherlock's parents, stood nearby; however, unlike John they were able to greet mourners as they approached with words of apology and comfort.

John kept his eyes down, his face blank and pale.

The child beside me pointed to John. "That man looks sad," she said.

"That's Dr. Watson," I explained. "Yes, he is sad. Mr. Holmes was his very best friend."

"Susie Carmichael is my very best friend," Julie told me. Her face grew sad; I wondered if she was envisioning life without Susie.

She squeezed my hand. "Could I give that man my flowers?" she asked.

"Yes, I think your flowers would make him feel a bit better," I said. "Come with me."

Suddenly shy, she hid behind me as I approached John. He didn't realize I was beside him until I touched his arm. Then he smiled blearily. "Dr. Middleton," he said. "Don't you have patients today?"

"Only one," I said vaguely. "I've brought you a little friend to meet." Coercing the child from her hiding spot behind me, I said, "This is Julie. She wanted to meet you."

John knelt down in front of her, as if she was a young patient. "Hi, Julie," he said.

"Hello," she mumbled, her cheeks growing pink with embarrassment.

His face grew puzzled. "You look familiar, Julie," he said. "Have we met before?"

"Yes," she nodded. "I was 'napped from the park. Mr. Holmes found me and saved me. You were with him when he did. You helped me, too. You checked to make sure my heart was beating and that I didn't hit my head. You told me I was going to be okay."

John raised his eyes to me and I nodded slightly.

John had no words, but that was all right. Before he could speak, Julie held out her bouquet. "I picked these. Do you want them?"

John's emotions were overflowing now, but he smiled tenderly. "Why, yes, I would love to have them. Thank you."

He took the flowers and was about to thank her again, but the child cut off his words, throwing herself into his arms. She clung to him and after the surprise wore off, John allowed himself a moment to squeeze her close, resting his cheek against her soft hair.

"I am sorry you lost your very best friend," the girl said.

John squeezed his eyes closed, and his shoulders shook. "Thank you," he whispered.

I was almost grateful when the moment was interrupted by the arrival of the priest, who patted John's shoulder and said, "We'll be starting in just a few moments."

"Yes, okay." John pulled away from the child and held the flowers near his heart. "I will cherish these, Julie. Thank you again."

"Come, Julie," I said gently. "Let's go back to your Mum."

Julie smiled and waved to John as I led her back through the crowds, back down the stairs outside. As we approached her mother, the girl suddenly cried out.

"I forgot to give Dr. Watson my picture!" she wailed. "I was going to give it to him since I can't give it to Mr. Holmes."

I patted my pocket, where the picture was safely folded. "I promise to give it to the right person, all right?"

Relieved, she nodded. "I wish I could give Mr. Holmes my letter," she said.

"So do I, my darling," I mumbled. "So do I."

::: author's note: I know Sherlock's parents were not at the funeral according to canon, but in my head they would absolutely go to the funeral to avoid raising suspicion.

Also, I apologize for not getting through the whole funeral in this chapter. I had intended to do so, but then this little girl named Julie came along and broke my heart.

Thanks for reading! :::


	17. Chapter 17

The funeral director was draping a white cotton shroud over Sherlock's coffin when I re-entered the church. There was a large crucifix cross-stitched into the fabric and the man fussed with it, making sure it was straight.

The organ music had begun to play "Abide with Me," and everyone had taken their seats, except John. He was still standing beside the coffin, clutching Julie's flowers to his heart.

I approached him quietly and touched his arm, whispering his name. He blinked hard, and fresh tears coursed down his cheeks. "I can't do this," he whispered.

"Can't do what, John?"

"I can't just… I can't just leave him here alone."

"He's not here, John," I said. For a moment, I thought he'd look up, questioning my choice of words. But he shook his head miserably. "I know, it's just a body," he whispered. "But it's Sh-Sherlock's body. It's all that I have left."

For the hundredth time, I wanted to tell him the truth. The casket was empty, except for the sandbags Mycroft had added to give it a credible weight.

Instead, I circled his shoulders with my arm and urged him away. "Come sit, John. You need to sit down for a bit."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay." John dabbed at his eyes with a soggy handkerchief and brushed his fingers along the coffin one last time.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he whispered, and allowed me to lead him away, to escort him to the front pew. Mrs. Hudson was sitting there with Mycroft and Sherlock's parents; when she saw John she reached for him. He sank heavily beside her, but when I stepped away, he turned to me.

"Stay," he murmured. "Please. Please stay."

"Of course," I said. "Whatever you need."

The funeral director rolled the coffin down the center aisle, leaving it in front of the altar. John couldn't take his eyes away from it.

The funeral wasn't very long, but I watched John throughout the service. He didn't sing along with the hymns, he didn't meet the priest's gaze. He simply sat, holding the wilting bouquet.

When it was time for the eulogy, he handed the flowers to Mrs. Hudson and walked slowly to the pulpit. I prayed he'd be able to make it through this part; judging from the pallor of his skin, I wasn't convinced he would.

He clutched at the pulpit, his knuckles white. After a few concentrated deep breaths, he was able to raise his eyes to the mourners before him.

"Sherlock Holmes was many things to many people," he began. "To some, he was a lunatic. To others, simply a man with terrible manners."

There were a few scattered chuckles from the congregation.

John continued. "To many, Sherlock Holmes was a hero."

He inhaled sharply and chewed on his lip for a moment, trying to gain control. After a long moment, he exhaled and began to speak again.

"To me, he was my best friend. He taught me many lessons that I will never forget. I… I made a list…"

He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and flattened it on the podium in front of him.

"'What I learned from Sherlock Holmes,'" he read. "'Number one: 'Never stop learning. And learn about everything you can.'"

He cleared his throat, struggling to keep his emotions in check. "Number two. 'Keep your eyes open and banish any prejudices you may gather from first impressions.'"

He had to clear his throat again, and I tensed, willing to intervene and finish the list for him if he couldn't make it.

But John drew from an unseen well of strength inside himself, and continued.

"Number three. 'All problems have more than one solution, and all problems can be solved,'" he said.

"Number four. 'When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.'"

John tucked his list back into his jacket pocket, and fixed his eyes on the coffin before him.

"There is one more thing I learned from Sherlock Holmes," he said. "And this is it:

'A true friend will lay down his life to preserve yours.'"

My eyes widened. Did he know? Did he suspect the truth?

No, he didn't. The devastation was written on his face as his mouth began to tremble. "And… and I'm sorry…" he whispered. "I'm s-sorry that I didn't have the chance to do the same for him."

In the pews behind us, I heard several people sniffle as John made his way slowly back to our pew. When he sank heavily between me and Mrs. Hudson, we each held our arms around him, and he wept in our embraces. She returned the bouquet, and he buried his face in the blooms, choking.

Mycroft sat on Mrs. Hudson's other side, his face pale but expressionless. Beside him, his parents wept quietly into handkerchiefs.

There was another hymn, and it was over. The pall bearers came forward to carry out the coffin. I recognized a few of them: DI Lestrade, whose eyes were wet and red; a woman with curly dark hair and a man who reminded me, strangely, of a greasy-haired weasel. The other three wore police uniforms. I wondered if they were truly friends of Sherlock's, or merely present for security reasons.

We stood and watched the coffin's recession as it traveled the long aisle, finally disappearing outside through the church's tall wooden doors.

We filed out in its wake, but when we were only halfway down the aisle, I heard John mumble a curse beside me. The flower bouquet slipped out of his hands, scattering petals and blooms over the church's hardwood floors. For a moment, he merely stood there, staring at nothing, not moving an inch.

My stomach sank. "John?" I shook his shoulder. "John!"

John's eyes rolled back and he followed the flowers' descent to the floor.


	18. Chapter 18

When John awakened, he was furious.

He was furious because he was in an ambulance heading for the hospital, rather than a limousine heading for the cemetery.

He was still furious an hour later, after the doctors at St. Bart's had drawn blood, run an electrocardiogram and checked his vitals.

"There is nothing wrong with me," he insisted for the hundredth time. "I feel fine now. Why won't anyone listen to me?"

"Because you have suffered an enormous emotional trauma," I said.

"Because you fell on your face in the middle of a church," said Lestrade, who was leaning tiredly against the wall of the triage room.

"Because you haven't been eating," Mrs. Hudson added. "You've barely slept at all this week. Honestly, John, you're acting just like…"

Her voice drifted off, but the unspoken name hung like smog in the air. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and held it to her nose. "I'm sorry," she whimpered.

I reached to touch her arm. "Don't be sorry," I soothed. "It's all right to cry, you all have suffered a terrible loss and it's a perfectly normal response to-"

"Enough!" John shouted. "Enough psycho-babble!"

Mrs. Watson startled at his shout. "John Watson!" she scolded. "Shame on you!"

John closed his eyes and pressed his fingers to his temples. "Okay, look, I'm sorry. I just… I need to go home. All right?"

In truth, I was eager for us to leave as well, but for an entirely different reason.

I had desperately hoped the paramedics would take John to a different hospital, but knew it was a futile wish. St. Bart's was the closest hospital to the church.

The flat I'd shared with Sherlock this week was located directly below the emergency room of St. Bart's, and we would occasionally hear sounds of distress

from the emergency room above our heads: doctors barking orders, patients moaning in pain.

The night before, after Sherlock had drifted off to sleep I had sat in the office area, listening to a child crying. He'd broken his arm, from what I could gather from his mother's frantic reassurances. The doctor had called for an X-Ray machine to be brought to room 7A.

And here we were, sitting in 7B in the emergency room of St. Bart's.

If my calculations were correct, we were right above Sherlock's bedroom. If he pounded on the ceiling, we would be able to hear it. If John cried out, Sherlock would know.

I was glad when the doctor on call arrived, John's paperwork in his hands. "All right, Dr. Watson, it looks like you're going to be just fine," he said cheerfully.

"Is that what I'm going to be," John muttered. "I'm going to be 'just fine'?"

The young doctor offered John a small, sad smile. "I heard about your friend," he said quietly. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Thank you. Where are my clothes?" John pushed back the blanket covering his lap, but the doctor held up a hand to stop him. "Your blood sugar was a bit low," he told John. "I'm having a supper tray sent to you, and I'd like to check your blood again after you've eaten."

"That's ridiculous," John snapped. "I'm fine. I'm a doctor, or has that escaped your notice?" He spied the wardrobe in the corner of the room and got unsteadily to his feet. "Everyone clear out," he ordered. "I need to get my clothes."

"John," I began, but he whirled on me before I could say another word. "No, you shut up," he snarled. "I came around as soon as I hit the ground. I was unconscious for just a few seconds. I would have been fine, but you insisted on calling an ambulance. Thanks to you, I missed my best friend's burial. Once again, I wasn't there for Sherlock. Once again, I should have done something for him and once again, I wasn't able to do a bloody thing!"

The young physician tried to intervene, but I raised my hand to stop his footsteps. I kept my eyes on John.

"What happened to Sherlock was not your fault," I said calmly.

I saw the pain flicker in his eyes, but it was replaced quickly by fury. "Don't, just… don't!" he shouted. "All right? Don't try to tell me what I'm feeling."

"You're feeling guilt," I said. "And I'm telling you none of this is your fault. Now I need you to try and take a deep breath before you fall over again."

"SHUT UP!" John shouted, slamming his hands over his ears. "Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!"

He wobbled a bit, and Lestrade stepped forward to help but John shoved his hand away. "Get the hell away from me!" he screamed.

With a few strides, I closed the space between John and I. Taking hold of his shoulders, I forced him to face me. There was so much pain, so many tears in those eyes and I wanted to weep with him. Instead, I met his gaze. "You need to take a deep breath right now," I said. "If you want to go home to Baker Street, you need to show the doctor here that you are fine."

An orderly stepped into the room, carrying a dinner tray. The emergency room doctor thanked her and took the tray into his hands. "All right, Dr. Watson," he said. "Just a few bites of food and we'll repeat your blood test and you can go home-"

At that moment, the lights overhead flickered. Alarms mounted in the ceiling began to blink, and a mechanical voice came over the sound system.

"Your attention, please. We have an intruder alert. This area has been put into lockdown. I repeat. This area has been put into lockdown. Follow emergency procedures immediately."

Several orderlies, dressed in full scrubs with their faces covered in surgical masks, ducked into the emergency area, locking the doors behind them and pulling window coverings down to block the light from the hallway.

We had all frozen in place- except John, who began to sway on his feet. Lestrade and the doctor caught him before he could swoon and deposited him back into his bed.

The shuffling of feet was the only noise I could hear. Silence was part of the lockdown drill, and an unsettling quietness fell over the emergency area.

Even as I stood there, careful not to make a sound, I knew. I just knew Sherlock was somehow involved in this.

_Stay there,_ I silently begged him. _Stay in our flat._

My begging must have worked. A few moments later, the alarms were silenced, and the mechanical voice overhead announced the "all clear."

The emergency room doctor exhaled loudly, as if he'd been holding his breath. "Well, then." He placed the dinner tray in front of John and whisked off the lid. "Give it a try, Dr. Watson."

He excused himself, expecting his orders would be obeyed, but John just sat in the bed, grimacing at the tray as if the perfectly harmless sandwich was going to crawl off the plate at any moment. Eventually, he picked up his fork and jabbed at the food in front of him.

I couldn't help but smile; he looked so much like Sherlock at that instant. He had adopted Sherlock's mannerisms; he crossed his arms the same, he lifted one side of mouth up to sneer like Sherlock did, he clicked his tongue in classic Sherlock fashion.

In fact, I mused, if his hair had been darker, if his eyes had been lighter- more of a blue green, like the eyes of the orderly who had entered the room during the lockdown- then John would be the spitting image of…

Wait a minute.

My eyes flew to the orderly standing in the corner of the room, studiously reading a chart.

Or, rather, pretending to read a chart, while those blue-green eyes bore into John.

John was distracted by his food, and hadn't noticed the intense gaze aimed in his direction. But the orderly noticed me, and his eyes locked with mine.

At that moment, I could have murdered Sherlock Holmes.


	19. Chapter 19

The moment after our eyes met, Sherlock turned on his heel and walked out of the emergency room.

I didn't follow him immediately. My heart was pounding in my chest, and I had to take long, cleansing breaths before I could plaster a smile on my face and turn to John.

"John, I need to check on one of my patients," I said calmly. "But before I go, I need to make sure you're going to be all right."

Before John could even speak, Mrs. Hudson interrupted. "I'll take him home as soon as the doctor says it's all right. And I'll stay with him tonight."

"I'll see them home," Lestrade added gruffly.

John sipped at the tea from his dinner tray, setting the cup down with a bang. "I wish everyone would stop taking care of me like I'm a bloody invalid."

"They are taking care of you because they're your friends," I told him. "And because it comforts them to know they're comforting you."

John looked appropriately contrite. "I know." He reached to squeeze Mrs. Hudson's hand, and nodded to Lestrade. "And I appreciate it, I really do."

"I want to help you, too, John," I said. "So I want you to call me tomorrow and set up an appointment. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes, he will," Mrs. Hudson supplied, and John gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to protest.

"Great." I handed her one of my business cards and then turned to pat John's shoulder. "If you need anything before then, you just call me," I said. "Day or night, John. Do you promise you'll do that?"

"Yeah," he muttered. "Thank you."

Offering smiles to his companions, I walked out of the emergency room. Stepping into the corridor, my eyes were peeled for Sherlock. There were a few people in the hall, but none of them were wearing surgical scrubs and none were watching me, so I walked casually to the service lift and pushed the button.

In the basement, I walked to our flat, reaching for the keypad outside our door. At Mycroft's insistence, the door was armed from the outside as well as the inside, preventing anyone from walking through the door without triggering the hospital's alarm systems.

At that moment, however, the door was slightly ajar.

I pushed it open and startled at the scene in front of me. Mycroft Holmes stood in the middle of my office, his hand raised to strike his brother.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion then. I saw Mycroft's fist make direct contact and Sherlock's neck snap back with impact. The strike was hard enough to propel Sherlock 180 degrees before he fell to his knees with a dull thud.

I yelled but it didn't stop Mycroft from pouncing at his brother, jerking Sherlock to a standing position. Mycroft held fistfuls of his brother's scrubs, yanking him close so their faces were inches apart.

"Do you have any idea what you have done?" the older man snarled. "You stupid, stupid man. Do you not realize the expense this little ruse has cost?"

"Mycroft, STOP!" I tried to pry his hands from Sherlock, but the man was much stronger than I was. He elbowed me away and continued his attack. "Dear brother mine," he hissed in a deadly low voice. "It would have been more cost efficient if you'd actually met your death."

Sherlock just stared into his gaze, his face expressionless and pale.

Incensed, I shoved Mycroft as hard as I could, and he broke his grip on his brother's shirt. Sherlock stumbled and slumped to the carpet, his limbs sprawling. As Sherlock curled himself into a little ball, I stood over him, a human barrier between him and his brother. When Mycroft stepped toward Sherlock, I thrust out my arms to keep him away.

"Mr. Holmes, you paid me to keep your brother safe," I said. "And that's what I am doing. Now get out before we both do things we will undoubtedly regret."

Mycroft's face was flushed with exertion and anger, his eyes cold as death. For a moment, I thought he'd lunge again. Instead, he turned on his heel and marched to the door of our flat.

"I'm overriding the door codes permanently," he said, stabbing numbers into the key code. "I am not helping you any further, Sherlock. You want to wander the halls of St. Bart's, then wander. You want to put John Watson in mortal danger, then do it and spare us the expense of keeping him alive.

"And if you want to climb back onto the rooftop, and jump again… then be my guest."

And with those terrible, horrible words, Mycroft Holmes walked out of his brother's life forever.


	20. Chapter 20

"Sherlock," I breathed. "Oh, my Lord, you shouldn't have done that."

We were sitting on the couch while he held a bag of ice over his blackening eye. He hadn't spoken since his brother had left, and I didn't blame him. I'd never heard such hateful words in all of my life. Most people would have raged against the words, or curled into a ball and cried. But Sherlock just sat there, numb. His eyes were blank, staring at nothing.

"Say something," I prodded gently. "Let me know you're in there."

He moved his mouth to speak, but the words failed him. After a couple of tries, he finally asked, "Is John all right?"

"Yes," I said. "He fainted at the church. He needs some rest and some food and he'll feel better."

"I heard the paramedics bring him in," he said. "They said his name."

Realization dawned on me as I saw the fear still etched in his downturned face. "You thought something much worse had happened to John," I said.

He nodded, only once.

"An attack?"

Another nod.

I chose my next words delicately. "Did you think you had somehow failed to protect him?"

His voice hitched, but he nodded again. He caught his lower lip in his teeth and bit down, hard, to keep from crying.

"You have protected him, Sherlock," I assured gently. "You gave up everything to keep him safe. And when you couldn't be there yourself, you sent me in to make sure he would be all right. And he is, Sherlock. He'll be all right.

"You're a hero, Sherlock," I added. "Don't ever forget that."

He gnawed on his lip even harder, and I knew he needed a minute to regain control of himself, so I walked into our kitchenette area, looking more for something to do than something to eat. Someone had thoughtfully stocked our shelves before we had moved in, and my eyes perused our selection.

Among the jars of spaghetti sauce and boxes of noodles and tinned vegetables, I found sugar, flour, baking soda and baking powder. There was butter and eggs and milk in the fridge.

I didn't find chocolate, but fortunately I had purchased a couple of chocolate bars on my way to the funeral. Now, I unwrapped the bars and began chopping them into bits.

Curiosity got the better of him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm making cookies," I explained. "I think this situation warrants chocolate chip cookies, don't you?"

He frowned. "Why?"

I began dumping ingredients into a big bowl. "Haven't you ever eaten a warm chocolate chip cookie?"

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

"I guarantee it will make you feel better."

He raised his eyebrow to me. "Is that your professional opinion, that a person transitioning into stage four of Kubler Ross' grief process should drown their sorrows in a product consisting primarily of fats, processed starches and sugar?"

I pointed my wooden spoon at him. "Just for that, I'm eating them all by myself."

As the cookies baked, our flat began to fill with their warm, sweet scent. Sherlock had picked up a book from the coffee table and was pretending to read, while still balancing the ice bag with one hand, but eventually his eyes drifted to the oven and the source of the wonderful smell.

When the cookies were finished, I playfully wafted their smell in his direction, but he ignored me. When they were cooled, I filled a plate, poured a glass of milk and spread out the offering on the coffee table in front of him. I took his ice pack, inspecting the injury for swelling. "You'll look just like Rocky by tomorrow," I said. "Now eat."

I dumped the ice pack and sat down beside him. He looked at the cookies as if I'd offered a plateful of larvae. I picked up one cookie, dunked it in his milk, and held it to his mouth.

"Come on, Sherlock," I soothed. "Do it for me."

His eyes met mine and to my surprise, he took a tentative bite. His eyes closed in appreciation, a quick "hmmm" escaping his throat.

He took the cookie from my fingers and shoved the rest of it in his mouth.

"Easy, easy," I admonished. "Don't choke."

I watched as he ate another cookie, and then another. After his fifth or sixth cookie, I thought I'd better distract him before he got a stomachache.

"I have something for you, but it might make you cry a little," I said. "Do you want it?"

"Cry in a good way or a bad way?" he asked.

"Maybe a little of both," I admitted.

He wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.

I crossed the room, reaching into my coat pocket for Julie's drawing. Tucked inside the paper was a tiny sprig of baby's breath; I had dropped it into my pocket before Julie had given the rest of her bouquet to John.

I showed him the flowers first. "I met a little girl named Julie today at the funeral," I said. "She was there with her mum. Her mother said she was abducted."

"Julie Edwards, possible fourth victim of The Playground Strangler," he said automatically. "June 5, 2012. He had taken three children previously and had stuffed them into the sewer. We found them all underground. They were filthy, but otherwise uninjured. Julie was to be his fourth victim, but we found him before he could hurt her."

"No, **you** found him," I said. "When we were waiting for the ER doctor to visit John, he told me all about the case. You had discovered where the children were because you had noticed the unusual pry marks on a manhole cover near the playground. The police freed the first three children and then lay in wait until he came back with Julie.

"John also said the Playground Strangler went to the emergency room with a perfect imprint of the manhole cover still on his face," I added. "Do you know how that happened?"

"No idea." He reached for another cookie.

He was more interested in the cookies than the flowers, so I set the sprig on the table beside him. I held out the folded picture for him to take. He eyes grew wary. "My fingers are dirty," he said.

I unfolded it for him, showing him Julie's drawing. "She made this for you. She said she wished she could give it to you."

Sherlock forgot about his chocolatey fingers. He took the picture in his hands, staring at it as if memorizing every line, every mark of crayon. He began chewing on his lip again to keep his sobs inside.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "Never, for a moment, think that people don't care about you. And never forget you are a hero."

He didn't speak a word. He just leaned into me, his forehead resting against my shoulder. I could hear his breath hitching, and I soothed him as best I could, stroking his curls with my fingertips, whispering over and over that everything was going to be all right.


	21. Chapter 21

I could hear Sherlock's stomach growling from across the room.

He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, his limbs sprawling and his shirt rucked up enough to reveal a rounded, overly full, very noisy stomach. It didn't seem to be bothering him, though; he was out like a light. I had tried to wake him long enough to send him to his bedroom, but he'd just mumbled something about getting up in a moment and then had drifted back into oblivion. Eventually I pulled the duvet from his bed and smoothed it over his still form. He didn't move at all as I tucked the covers around him; because he was so deeply asleep, I thought I might be able to sleep in my own bed for a change.

Then I remembered Mycroft's words:

"And if you want to climb back onto the rooftop and jump again, then be my guest."

Those words sat like a block of ice in the pit of my stomach.

I felt silly for doing it, but I grabbed hold of my file cabinet and dragged it to block the door of our flat. If Sherlock moved it, I reasoned the scraping sound would awaken me.

I was a lighter sleeper than he was, apparently, since he didn't even turn his head while I was doing this.

I retired to my bedroom but left the door open, just in case, and propped myself up in bed. I had packed a novel in my suitcase, but tonight was the first time I'd had the chance to open it.

For a few moments, I read, half-listening to the blissful rhythm of Sherlock's quiet snores. His sounds of sleep had nearly caused me to follow his example, but just as I was drifting his breath hitched.

Immediately I was awake, sitting up and listening intently.

His breathing hitched again. A tiny whimper escaped from the back of his throat.

He was dreaming. And it wasn't a happy dream.

I hoped he would settle back into restful sleep, but a moment later I heard him toss back his duvet and scramble to his feet. He rushed into his bedroom, into the adjoining bathroom, and for a moment I thought he was going to be sick from the cookies he'd devoured. Instead, I heard the water running at full blast. He hadn't bothered to close the bathroom door, which struck me as odd.

I found him standing at the sink, rubbing his hands together as if they were covered in filth.

I called his name, but he only glanced sideways. "It won't come off," he said through gritted teeth.

"Is there something on your hands?" I asked cautiously.

"The blood!" he cried. "It's everywhere! It's all over me. It was all over… her."

"Who?"

"The child!" he sobbed. "The girl! If I had just been a little faster… if I'd just concentrated a little harder… I could have saved her."

"Do you mean Julie?" I stepped closer, reaching to touch him. He didn't flinch at my touch, but he didn't stop the frantic scrubbing. "But you did save her, Sherlock," I said.

He shook his head vehemently.

"Yes. You did." Gently, I reached to turn off the water; it was so frigid his hands were raw and red. Grabbing a towel, I wrapped it gently around his fingers, holding his hands in mine. "Sherlock?" I asked. "Could we go sit down now?"

He nodded but I knew he wasn't awake yet. Being careful to not jolt him into consciousness, I led him gently into his bedroom. He sat obediently on the edge of his bed, but his eyes were still half-open and blank. I knelt in front of him.

"That girl lived, Sherlock." I spoke to him as if he was a child. "You found her in time and she was okay. Do you remember now?"

His eyebrows knitted. "Remember…?"

"Yes," I encouraged. "She drew you a picture yesterday. Do you remember that?"

He simply stared at me, as if he couldn't make out my facial features. His eyelids dropped.

"Sherlock, it's time to lie down again, all right?"

He nodded and allowed me to ease him down to rest his head on the pillows.

That ugly little scarf of his was sitting on the bedstand, and I took his hand and lay it gently in his palm. "Here, sometimes this soothes you," I explained.

He fingered it gingerly. "What is this?"

"It's the scarf you made for John." I realized my mistake immediately. In a heartbeat Sherlock went from sleepy and complacent to frightened.

"John? This is John's. He always wears this. If he doesn't have it in his possession… Where is he?"

At first, I attempted to distract him. "It's late," I said. "Why don't you try to sleep?" I tried to press him back, but he wouldn't allow it. His glazed eyes searched the room. "This isn't our flat." He shoved away the duvet. "What's happened to him?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. John is fine. I promise you, he's fine."

"No!" He shook his head fervently. "I have to talk to John. Now."

"It's late, and John's sleeping," I said. "You don't want to wake him, right? People don't like phone calls in the middle of the night. It frightens them."

He was listening to me now; I saw the fear drain from his features. "I suppose it can wait until morning," he murmured. To my relief, his eyes began to droop again, and this time when I eased him back, he allowed it. His eyes slipped closed and he sighed. "My stomach hurts," he mumbled before drifting back to sleep.

Well, at least one of us was going to close their eyes that night. It certainly wasn't going to be me, not with Sherlock disoriented and sleepwalking and the door unarmed.

I glared at the security code pad mounted near the door. It was blinking a maddening shade of red.

I sat down at my laptop and sent an instant message to Mycroft Holmes.

_Merry Middleton: (11:27 p.m.) Arm the doors._

There was no response. After five minutes, I sent a second message.

_Merry Middleton: (11:32 p.m.) Your brother is understandably very upset and sleepwalking. I will not sleep if the doors are not armed. Arm the doors now._

Again, I waited and again, there was no response.

I knew the man always had his phone on hand, and I knew damn well he was getting my messages.

Incensed, I grabbed my cellular phone and padded softly into Sherlock's room. He was asleep, thankfully, but he wasn't peaceful; his forehead was furrowed, his mouth slightly downturned. A spectacular bruise had formed around his eye, and over his high cheekbone he had a lump, and in the middle of the lump was the slight imprint of an "H."

I held up my cellular phone and took a quick snapshot of the injury. I grimaced at the image as it downloaded to my laptop.

I attached the disturbing photograph to a new instant message, with a simple message.

_Merry Middleton: (11:37 p.m.) That's a lovely ring, Mycroft. Is it new?_

I had noticed the ring on Mycroft's right hand at the funeral that morning. It was a pretentious, gold monstrosity with an "H" etched into the face of the ring.

His brother's cheek bore a perfect shadow of it.

_Merry Middleton: (11:38 p.m.) I wonder what Scotland Yard would think of this? If I remember correctly, there are several commissioners whose home phone numbers are at my disposal. Former clients, you know. Powerful men who could easily ruin a career with one simple phone call. _

_Now arm the damn door._

There was no response, but a moment later I heard a series of "beeps" behind me. I turned in time to see the security code pad change its color from red to green.


	22. Chapter 22

"What's wrong with me?" Sherlock asked wearily.

We were sitting across from each other the next morning, the breakfast tray sitting untouched between us. Neither of us had slept the night before. Sherlock had been inundated with nightmares and bouts of sleepwalking, and every time I'd soothed him back to sleep, it would take me another hour to drift off. It seemed the moment I'd close my eyes, Sherlock's eyes would fly open.

By morning we were exhausted and numb, and neither of us was in the mood for cognitive therapy. However, neither of us could handle another night like the one before. It was best to start "talking it out" immediately.

"You have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," I said. When Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, I held up my hand to stop him. "No, you're not a sociopath. You feel things deeply. You might even feel them more deeply than others do. You just choose to force those feelings deeply inside yourself. It's how you cope with life.

"Unfortunately, when you try to force down too much, you can't do it. Your emotions will start bubbling to the surface whether you want them to or not. And because you've been fighting all these symptoms- the loss, the depression, the fear- throughout the day, those feelings are coming out at night when your defenses are down." 

From across the room, my phone began to buzz, vibrating against the surface of my desk. I tried to ignore it, but Sherlock stared at it as it skittered across the smooth surface. "Aren't you going to answer that?" he asked.

"We're in the middle of a session," I said. "It will go to voice mail." When the buzzing had ceased, I asked him, "What do you remember from last night?"

"Nothing." Even if he hadn't been swallowing hard and avoiding my gaze, I would have known he was lying. I felt a pang of frustration. "Suit yourself," I said. "But if you keep all those memories bottled up inside you, eventually they're going to come out again. And then when they come out, they'll be more violent and frightening than they would be if you chose to-"

The phone buzzed again; this time, Sherlock insisted I answer it.

"It's John!" he said urgently. "It's John! Help him!"

"Sherlock, it could be anyone," I reasoned. "We're in the middle of something-"

Sherlock leaped to his feet and stalked toward my desk. He stopped only when I raised my voice. "Sherlock, do NOT pick up that phone!"

The phone fell silent. Sherlock turned to me, his eyes glinting with emotion. "It's John," he hissed. "A typical voicemail is one minute in length. After that time, the mailbox terminates the message regardless of whether or not the caller is still speaking at the time, therefore the caller has to redial the number and resume his message on a second recording. After a minute, the same thing will happen, which may necessitate the need for a third phone call.

"John is extremely long-winded while leaving voice mails," Sherlock said. "It usually takes three calls for him to say everything he intends to say. If that phone rings a third time-"

The phone rang a third time.

I knew I wouldn't be able to keep Sherlock away, so I motioned for him to wait and walked across the room. As I was reaching for the phone, the vibration caused the little cellular to skid off the edge of my desk. I grabbed for it, but it still fell to the floor.

The buzzing stopped as I snagged it with my fingertips. Sherlock was nearly in tears, running his fingers through his hair with great distress by the time I'd retrieved it.

"It's okay, dear, I've got it." I walked to his side, just long enough to pat his shoulder. He gulped, nodding his understanding.

I stepped away, dialed into my voice mail and heard the polite, automated voice tell me I had three new messages.

As Sherlock had predicted, the first one was from John.

"Dr. Middleton, it's John Watson. I wanted to, ah… apologize for my behavior after Sherlock's… after the church service. My behavior was inexcusable. I don't know what came over me.

"I mean, I do, of course, but…"

John's voice cracked, and he cleared his throat noisily.

The voicemail system, sensing the absence of speech, cut him off.

The second voicemail message was also from John.

"Hi, Dr. Middleton. John Watson again. Sorry about that. Anyway, I just was wondering if we could talk soon. I thought, maybe when the…" He paused, and I could hear him suck in a deep breath. "When the funeral was over I thought I could start putting the pieces together, but… now… Now, it's just worse and I… I just don't know what to do, a-and…"

The voicemail cut him off again.

The third message was the shortest, and most heartbreaking of them all.

"Dr. Middleton… could you just… call me, please?"

I heard a quiet sob just before the phone line went dead.

I quietly locked my phone and turned to Sherlock; I had stepped away from him in the hopes he wouldn't heard the voicemails but obviously he had heard every word; he was sitting in the chair, thumbing tears away from his eyes.

"All right," I said quietly. "I'm just going to step into my bedroom and talk to John. I'll be back in a minute."

I turned away, intending to slip out of the room and give him a moment of privacy, but my foot caught on a blunt object and I stumbled, muttering as pain shot through my toe. I glanced down to see what I had struck and discovered a small, brown suitcase tucked under the sofa.

I remembered the suitcase appearing after Mycroft's first visit, and at some point during the week I had tucked it out of the way and had promptly forgotten about it until my big toe had reminded me of its presence. Now I pulled it out and set it on the table.

Despite his tears, Sherlock's attention was drawn to the case. "That's mine," he said. "Where did you get it?"

"Your brother dropped it off, I think," I said. "The first night after you… well." I cleared my throat. "After."

He reached for the case, turning it toward himself and unzipping it. He lifted the lid with trepidation, and when his face crumbled I stepped closer, intending to pull the case out of his sight if it caused him any more pain.

But it didn't. Inside the case was a collection of neatly folded clean socks and underwear, but they were serving more as a disguise than a necessity. Nestled in the middle of the clothing was a violin case.

With the utmost of reverence, Sherlock opened the case and took the beautiful instrument in his hands. It was maple in color, intricately carved. Lying it on his knees, he picked up the bow, rosining it from an amber-colored cake. When that was done, he toyed with the tuning pegs a bit, and then, satisfied, settled the violin against his shoulder and chin.

The man and the instrument seemed to flow together as the pure, sorrowful notes began to flow. I listened, mesmerized for long moments, as the pain seemed to lift from his body. The tears dried on his cheeks, his eyes slipped closed and a half-smile came to his lips.

He had missed his music.


	23. Chapter 23

Sherlock played his violin for hours that day, not seeming to notice he was still in his pajamas and dressing gown.

He was so tired from the disturbances of the night before, and he desperately needed a nap. However, he was determined to stay awake until John returned the voice mail I had left for him. Sherlock craved the sound of his best friend's voice, even if it was only through an overheard cellular conversation.

But John hadn't called back yet, and Sherlock's worry grew with every passing moment, until his mouth was downturned and his fingers trembled against the violin's strings. Although I tried to convince him that John could have been napping or having dinner or visiting with Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock insisted something was wrong. When I reminded him that PTSD also brought a heightened level of anxiety arousal, he played his violin louder in an attempt to drown me out.

He stopped short when my cellular finally rang. He froze where he was, still holding his violin in position, careful not to make a sound as I answered the call.

"Hello, this is Dr. Middleton…"

"Dr. Middleton, it's John Watson."

"John, I was hoping to hear from you." And, I silently added, Sherlock was about to jump right out of his skin.

"I appreciate your calling me back. I'm…" I could hear John taking a long, ragged breath. "I'm not doing very well."

"Would you like to make an appointment?" I asked. "I can meet you today even, if you'd like."

There was no answer.

"John?" I asked. "John, are you still there?"

All I could hear were the quiet exhales of someone sobbing so hard they couldn't speak.

By this point, Sherlock had set his violin down and was pacing the floor in front of me.

"John?" I repeated.

Sherlock was growing more agitated by the moment. His entire body was beginning to tremble and his eyes were locked on me.

I feared they would both fall apart completely and I wouldn't know which one to catch first.

Finally, John whispered, "I'm sorry." I heard him take a deep, tremoring breath. "I'm sorry. It's just… it's hard."

"It's going to be all right," I told John, but my eyes were on Sherlock, trying to reassure them both.

I made arrangements to meet John at my office in an hour's time, and as soon as I hung up the phone, Sherlock exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for a long time. Knowing Sherlock, he'd probably been doing exactly that.

"Sit down," I urged. "Try to rest, all right? I'll go to him now."

He nodded, suddenly exhausted as the adrenaline drained away. He sank down on the sofa and stared at the ceiling.

Once he relaxed, I was confident he'd take a nap while I was gone. I gathered my purse and coat and as I was leaving the flat, I reached to arm the security alarm.

"Don't bother," Sherlock yawned. "I could disarm it in my sleep."

I thought of asking why he'd forgotten to disarm it the day before when he had set off every alarm in St. Bart's, but decided to let it slide. I had no doubt that with his brilliant mind, he could disarm the most complicated lock with ease. What he did when he panicked, however, was what worried me.

For my own well-being, I armed the door behind me anyway.

"Sometimes I forget to breathe," John said.

We had been sitting in my office for a half hour, but so far all I'd been able to offer is tissues and a gentle touch to his hand.

He was vacillating between sorrow and anger. As he ran out of tears, the anger surfaced. "I just want to know why," John said. "You know? I would like to just drag that man out of the bloody grave and restart his heart and ask him why. Why would he do this? How could he do this to his family, to his friends… to me…" The anger gave way to sorrow; John's face seemed to crumble and the tears began again.

"Maybe he just couldn't tell you," I suggested. "Maybe he didn't have the words."

"That doesn't answer my questions," John said. "It was all fine until just a few weeks ago. How could it go downhill so fast? Suicide, isn't that something people contemplate for a long time before they just do it?"

"Let's talk about your breathing," I said. "Tell me what it's like when you forget to breathe."

He nodded, dropping his gaze as if ashamed. "I think it crushes me, the idea of doing this every day. I think that's when I stop."

"'It?'"

"The… grief. It's too much sometimes. It's like the pain is so heavy I can't breathe under it.I don't even notice until I start gasping."

"What do you do when that happens?"

John shook his head. "I try to distract myself. I try to look at patient charts or do research. Anything to distract myself. But my mind starts drifting and then the cycle starts over."

We talked about breathing exercises and other distraction techniques to use when the pain became unbearable. I offered to prescribe a medication to take the edge off, but he refused.

The appointment went longer than our normal sessions but neither of us cared. Before we parted we talked about Sherlock's headstone. It was to be placed in the ground the following morning. John said Mycroft must have pulled some strings to have it finished so quickly. Outwardly I agreed, but wondered exactly when the headstone had been ordered. Most likely it had been weeks earlier.

John said he and Mrs. Hudson were going to visit Sherlock's grave the next day. "We're going after lunch," he said. "She thought it would be easier if we saw it for the first time with full stomachs." He chuckled, but the sound was mournful.

"Please call me tomorrow, then," I said. "And let me know how it went."

It hadn't been an easy appointment for John, but I was glad he was reaching out for help. Still, it was exhausting caring for John and Sherlock on such intense levels, and I was grateful when the cab I'd hired pulled up in front of St. Bartholemew's.

I thanked the cabbie and tipped him well, and as the car pulled away I tilted my face to the sun overhead. We didn't get much sun in London, but being underground for the better part of the last week had made me crave what little we did receive.

I opened my eyes, gazing at the beautiful architecture of the building before me and admiring the hand-tooled marble, the lettering carved so many centuries ago.

But then my blood ran like ice in my veins.

A lone figure stood on the roof, balancing precariously on the scalloped ledge.


	24. Chapter 24

For an endless moment, I was frozen on the sidewalk in front of the hospital, staring up into the open sky. For a second time, Sherlock was standing far above me, balanced on the ledge of St. Bart's. His hand was outstretched as if he was reaching for someone who wasn't there. I couldn't make out his expression well, but his face seemed absolutely blank.

Immediately, I knew what was happening.

I burst forward, grasping the security guard standing at the hospital door. Fortunately, he recognized me. "Dr. Middleton, what is it?"

"My patient is on the roof."

"What?" He hurried into the street to get a better look, shielding his eyes from the sun. As soon as he saw the figure far above us, he grabbed his radio and began barking orders into it.

"Tell your guards to approach him with extreme caution," I said. "He might not be awake!"

The man lowered his radio. "What?"

Heading into the hospital, I yelled over my shoulder. "Don't scare him! Whatever you do, do not scare him!"

I bolted into the building, running straight for the elevators and jabbing at the call buttons as if that would somehow make the lift arrive faster. After a split second of waiting, I ran to the stairwell. My lungs burned as I climbed flight after flight of barren, cement stairs, and I was breathless by the time I burst into the sunlight and on to the roof.

I blinked hard, trying to see my surroundings. When my vision cleared, the sight before me nearly caused my heart to stop.

Sherlock was standing on the ledge, speaking to someone only he could see. He was still wearing his pajamas and his dressing gown fluttered around his legs. His feet were bare and dribbling blood from where he'd apparently stepped on broken glass.

He still held his arm outstretched, his palm upright as if he was pleading. "You have

to understand," he mumbled. "… didn't have a choice…."

His voice was slurred, like a person who had just awakened from a deep sleep.

Or someone who wasn't awake at all.

Sherlock, in all his brilliance, had managed to unlock the door of our flat without setting off a single alarm and had found his way to the roof. And there he was, reenacting the single most traumatic moment of his life.

And he was still asleep.

I couldn't call to him. I couldn't tell him to step back. The slightest startle might frighten him and send him toppling over the edge.

A scream bubbled in my throat as he leaned forward, trying to reach further toward the phantom John; his bare toes were no longer on a solid surface. "I have to tell you why, John," he slurred. "Why I did it."

I took a step forward. Then another. And another. I held my breath, terrified he would see me, lose his balance and fall.

I was fifteen feet from him. Then ten feet. Then eight. I still wasn't close enough to touch him.

I stepped again, all the while silently chanting, "Don't wake up, Sherlock… don't wake up…"

He dropped his hand, his shoulders slumping in defeat. For a moment, I thought he'd awakened. But no, he was still talking to the ghost standing in front of him. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "'m sorry, J-John… didn't mean to hurt you…"

He bowed his head, and a quiet sob escaped him. "'M so sorry…"

Behind me, the roof door cracked against the wall as security guards burst through. Their arrival was loud, their voices urgent. Before I could shush them, Sherlock turned where he stood, a frown crossing his face, the fog of sleep fading from his eyes. He didn't notice the empty air behind him, for which I was immensely grateful.

"Merry?" he questioned, his voice small and uncertain.

I inched closer. "Sherlock, listen to me," I said. "Don't look back. Just step toward me, all right?" I held out my hands. "Take my hands, Sherlock, okay? Just step down."

"Where am I?" He glanced over his shoulder, and a wave of vertigo must have washed over him. He startled and began to flail, his arms like windmills, his back arching. As I lunged for him, trying in vain to close the gap between us, he fell backwards out of my reach.


	25. Chapter 25

Sherlock had told me once that when you step off a building, you don't fall right away.

That day, I discovered he was right.

As he teetered, I leaped forward to close the gap between us and clutched a handful of his dressing robe. For a millisecond, he hung in the air, his balance irretrievably lost. And then he was falling.

Falling forward.

We both hit the ground, Sherlock sprawling on top of me for a moment before he rolled away, his eyes wide and terrified. He crab-walked backward until his back struck the wall with a thunk. His bloodshot eyes darted from side to side as he tried to take in his surroundings.

"Sherlock!" I crawled closer to him, trying to ground him with my voice. When he focused on me, some of the terror drained away from his eyes. "Merry?" he questioned shakily.

"Yeah." I scooted to sit next to him and lay my hand on his forearm. "I'm here, Sherlock."

He glanced around at his surroundings. "Why are we on a roof?" His eyes widened then. "Why are we on _this_ roof?"

"I don't know," I breathed. "I think you had a bad dream and started sleepwalking."

He covered his mouth with his hand, and for a moment I thought he was going to be sick. I closed the space between us and held out my hand for him to take. "It's okay," I said. "You're safe now. It's okay."

He clutched my hand with both of his; I was his human lifeline. Despite this, his eyes held so much confusion. "What happened?" he repeated. "Merry, I don't remember what happened."

Often, a person suffering trauma will ask "What happened?" over and over as their mind tries to recover from the shock their body has suffered. Sherlock was no exception, and I was about to explain the circumstances again when I noticed the band of security guards still stood at attention, holding guns aimed at us. Obviously, they were adding to Sherlock's distress. Their weapons weren't doing much for my rattled nerves, either.

"Put those away," I ordered. I struggled to my feet and held up my identification badge. "I have visiting privileges here," I said. "This is my patient."

The guards relaxed, lowering their weapons, but they didn't fall out of formation. Humiliated, Sherlock covered his eyes with his hand.

"They're staring at me," he mumbled. "Can we go back inside, please?"

"Yes." I stood up and tried to pull him to a standing position. He struggled to his feet and swayed as soon as he was upright. I circled his waist with my arm, slinging one of his arms over my shoulders. "Go slowly," I ordered. "Can you walk?"

He tried, but groaned with his first step. The soles of his bony feet were still bleeding freely. No wonder; there were bits of broken glass littering the roof. I shucked off my own shoes and tried to cover his feet as best I could.

He was shivering so violently that I took off my coat and draped it over his shoulders; just as I was holding on to him and urging him to walk again, we heard a dull roar above us.

A helicopter.

It seemed to be descending from heaven itself, swooping toward us. I could see a news channel logo on the side of the aircraft.

They must have been nearby, listening to the police frequencies, and had heard a report of a man on the roof of St. Bart's. Fortunately, they were still a good distance away; if we hurried, we could make it inside without blowing Sherlock's cover.

Then the pilot caught sight of us and bore down.

Sherlock, in his fragile state, cowered, wrapping his arms around his head.

The guards were still standing there, unsure what to do. One of them was barking into a radio, but no one was doing anything helpful.

"Do your job, and protect us!" I shouted. I grabbed Sherlock's head and led him to press against my shoulder, hiding his face from the prying eyes of the media. I yanked my jacket up over Sherlock's head as the same guards who had been aiming weapons at us five minutes earlier now clustered around us, shielding us from prying eyes.

Once inside the building, I led Sherlock to the service elevator, praying no one would be using it. Mercifully, we made it back into the flat without encountering another person.

As I was arming the door behind us, Sherlock whispered, "Merry. Did I almost.. did I almost.. jump? Again?"

I didn't want to tell him the truth. I came close and lay my hands gently on his shoulders, and as quietly as I could I said, "Yes, Sherlock. It was an accident. It's all right now."

But it wasn't all right at all. He may not have fallen physically this time, but the trauma looked just as it had the day he'd jumped, and the PTSD symptoms were close to the surface.

Sherlock was falling apart right in front of me. His legs were shaking so hard his knees were buckling. He was gasping for air, his mouth downturned as he choked, "Why? Why would I do that? Why?"

I tried to explain, but my words were lost when he doubled at the waist, clasping his hands over his mouth.

The bathroom might as well have been a mile away; there was no way he'd be able to walk that far. Just as I had done the first day we'd met, I grabbed up a waste bin and carried it- and half-carried him- to the sofa. We sank down together and because his hands were trembling violently, I held the bin for him this time, using my free hand to stroke his back as he threw up.

I remembered the first day we had met, when he'd been covered in blood that wasn't his. This time the blood was his own and trickling from his poor torn feet.

That day, he'd ordered me to go away when he'd been so terribly nauseated. Today, he seemed to take comfort by my presence, leaning against me after his stomach had emptied itself. For long moments, he rested against my shoulder, listening obediently as I coached him through a deep breathing exercise.

As soon as I was certain he had finished throwing up, I cleaned out the waste bin and found our first-aid kit. I took a clean washcloth from his bathroom and soaked it in warm water and added a dab of soap. Stepping into his bedroom, I spied that ugly, incredibly long and thin scarf between the sheets and picked that up as well.

Returning to kneel in front of him, I pressed the scarf into his hand. Instinctively, he lifted it to his cheek, breathing in John's scent. His eyes fluttered closed as I removed my shoes and cleaned his feet, checking to make sure he was free of glass shards. Thankfully, the cuts were many but none were deep enough to require stitches. I bandaged them instead.

By the time I had put away the first aid kit, wiped up the bloody footprints from the floor and washed his blood from my own hands, Sherlock was starting to slump on the sofa.

I sat down in the chair beside him. "Are you all right?"

"Mmmm," he agreed. "I can barely keep my eyes open. It's pathetic."

"That's the adrenaline wearing off," I said. "And you must admit, Sherlock, you have every reason to be exhausted. This has been a rather difficult week."

He nodded and even managed a small smile at my gross understatement. His eyes were growing droopy, but he fought against sleep; every time his eyes drifted closed, he'd force himself to open them again.

He was making me tired just watching him. Finally, I roused him enough and sent him to his bedroom for a nap. It was still daylight, but in our windowless world night and day made little difference.

He went willingly, and I listened to the now-familiar sounds of his mattress creaking as he lay down. It would creak a few more times as he found the right position- on his stomach, with one leg crooked and one foot free of the duvet.

I'd seen him fall asleep a few times now, and I knew he would wrap the scarf around his wrist and press it to his cheek before he closed his eyes. On every other occasion, this had soothed him to sleep.

This time, I hoped the scarf would be enough.


End file.
